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Cosmopolis 


Cosmopolis 


^  Qtotjef 


PAUL   BOURGET 

AUTHOR  OF   "THB   PROMISED   LANU,"    "THE   DISCIPLE,"   ETC. 


AUTHORIZED  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

TAIT,  SONS   &   COMPANY 

Union  Square 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
TAIT,   SONS  &  COMPANY 


[AU  rights  reserved'] 


TROW  OmECTORV 
MlNTINO  «N0  BOOKBINDInQ  COMPANT 

N(W  roiiK 


CONTENTS. 


PAQS 

I.    A  Dilettante  and  a  Believer, 1 

II.    The  Commencement  op  a  Dbama 25 

III.  BOLESLAS  GORKA,         ........      51 

IV.  Danger  Nigh, .    75 

V.    The  Countess  Steno, 107 

VI.  The  Inconsistencies  of  an  Old  Chouan,    .       .        .  138 

VII.    A  First  Cousin  to  Iago, 190 

VIII.    The  Duel, 219 

IX.    Alba  Sees, 248 

X.    Common  Misery 272 

XI.  Lake  of  Porto,         .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  302 

XII.    Epilogue,  .       .       * 332 


TO    COUNT  JOSEPH   PRIMOLI. 

I  send  you,  my  dear  friend,  from  beyond  the  Alps,  the  ro- 
mance of  international  life  that  loas  begun  in  Italy  almost 
binder  your  eyes,  ivhich  I  have  framed  in  that  old  and  noble 
Rome  of  tohich  you  are  so  ardent  a  lover.  Certainly,  the 
drama  of  passion  unfolded  in  this  book  has  nothing  else 
especially  Roman,  and  nothing  teas  farther  from  my  thoughts 
than  to  trace  a  picture  of  a  society  so  local,  so  traditional  as 
that  which  stirs  betiveen  the  Quirinal  and  the  Vatican.  Tlie 
drama  is  not  even  Italian,  for  it  could  not,  toith  any  degree 
of  probability,  develop  itself  in  Venice  or  in  Florence. 
Nice  would  have  suited  equally  well,  and  St.  Moritz,  not 
to  mention  Paris  and  London — in  fact,  the  various  cities 
which  are,  as  it  were,  quarters  scattered  throughout  Europe, 
of  that  Jhating  Cosmopolis  baptized  by  Beyle  :  Veng-o  ad- 
esso  da  Cosmopoli.  It  is  tJie  contrast  between  the  some- 
tvhat  incoherent  ways  and  doings  of  the  wanderers  of  high 
life,  and  tJie  character  of  perennial  existence  stamped  every - 
loliere  in  the  great  city  of  the  Ccesars  and  the  Popes,  that  led 
me  to  choose  this  spot,  lohere  tJie  smallest  corners  speak  of  a 
2)ast  of  centuries,  for  evoking  in  it  some  representatives  of 
thai  mode  of  life,  ivhich  is  the  most  m/odern,  and  also  the 
most  arbitrary  and  most  momentary.  Fow,  ivho  knoiv  better 
than  anyone  the  odd  world  of  the  Cosmopolites,  ivill  under- 
stand why  I  have  confined  myself  here  to  depicting  a  mere 
fra^mefd,  as  I  would,  had  occasion  alloived,  have  told  only 
an  episode.     This  ivmld,  indeed,  has  not,  cannot  have  either 


Vlll  TO   COUNT  JOSEPH   PRIMOLI. 

dejimte  manners  w  a  general  character.  It  is  all  excqytions 
and  singularities.  We  are  so  naturally  creatures  of  habit, 
our  perpetual  mobility  has  svxih  a  need  of  gravitating  to  some 
fioced  axis,  that  reasons  of  a  very  personal  order  can  alone 
determine  us  to  an  habitual  and  voluntary  exile  from  our 
native  country.  The  reason  is  sometimes,  for  an  artist,  a 
methodical  care  for  culture  and  renewal ;  sometimes,  for  a 
man  of  business,  the  need  of  assuring  oblivion  of  some 
scandalous  transaction  ;  sometimes,  forr  the  man  of  pleasure, 
the  search  of  new  adventures  ;  in  the  case  of  another,  who 
suffers  from  prejudice  respecting  birth,  it  is  the  desire  of 
finding  more  equitable  conditions ;  in  another,  it  is  to  fly 
from  too  painful  recollections.  The  existence  of  the  Cosmo- 
polite can  hide  everything  under  the  luxurious  outlawry  of 
its  fancies,  from  snobbery  in  search  of  higher  connections  to 
roguery  in  search  of  easier  plunder,  as  it  passes  in  its  career 
through  the  brilliant  frivolities  of  sport  and  the  dark  in- 
trigues of  politics,  or  the  sadness  of  a  life  of  failure.  A 
like  variety  of  causes  renders  at  the  same  time  vei'y  attract- 
ive and  almost  impossible  the  task  of  the  romance  loriter 
who  takes  as  his  model  this  fluctuating  society,  so  uniform  in 
the  exterior  rites  of  its  elegant  life,  so  really,  so  thoroughly 
complex  and  composite  in  its  fundamental  elements.  Tlie 
ivriter  is  reduced  to  taking  a  series  of  particular  cases,  as 
I  have  done,  lohile  essaying  to  disengage  therefrom  a  law 
which  dominates  them.  This  law,  in  the  present  book,  is  the 
permanence  of  race.  Contradictory  as  may  appear  the  re' 
suit,  the  m/yre  one  is  familiar  loiih  Cosmopolites,  the  more 
tve  are  assured  that  the  most  irreducible  datum  in  them  is 
that  ^aedal  force  of  Jieredity  tvhich  slumbers  unde>'  the 
uniform  monotony  of  superficial  relations,  but  is  ready  to 


TO   COUNT  JOSEPH    PRIMOLI.  IX 

awaken  as  soon  as  passion  touches  the  ground-wo7'k  of  the 
man's  nature.  But  even  there  a  difficulty  almost  unsur- 
mountable  presents  itself.  Obliged  to  concentrate  his  action 
on  a  restricted  number  of  personages,  the  novelist  cannot 
claim  to  embody  in  these  personages  that  confused  assem- 
blage of  characters  which  is  sumrmd  up  in  the  vague  loord 
"  race.'''  To  take  this  present  book  as  an  example :  You 
and  I,  my  dear  Primoli,  know  many  Venetian  and  English 
ladies,  many  Romans  and  Poles,  Americans  and  French- 
men, who  have  nothing  in  common  with  Mme.  Steno,  Maud 
and  Boleslas  Gorka,  the  Prince  of  Ardea,  the  Marquis 
Cibo,  Lincoln  Maitland,  his  brother -in-laio  and  the  Marquis 
de  Montfamm,  just  as  a  Justus  Hafner  represents  but  one 
fojcc  among  the  twenty  European  adventurers,  of  whom  ive 
know  neither  the  religion,  nor  the  family,  nor  the  education, 
nor  the  starting-point,  nor  the  destination,  to  such  an  extent 
has  he  been  involved  in  different  professions  and  surround- 
ings. My  ambition  would  be  fully  satisfied,  if  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  creating  a  group  of  individuals,  not  representative 
of  the  ivhole  rojce  to  which  they  belong,  but  only  possible  with 
the  data  of  that  race — or  races  ;  for  many  of  tlwm,  Justus 
Hafner  and  his  daughter  Fanny,  Alba  Steno,  Flohrent  Chap- 
ron,  Lydia  Maitland,  have  in  their  veins  drops  of  very 
mixed  blood.  May  these  personages  interest  you,  my  dear 
friend,  and  become  as  living  to  you  as  for'  days  they  ivere 
to  me  !  Welcome  them  to  your  palace  of  Tor  di  Nona — 
near  the  Albergo  dell'  Or  so,  lohere  3Iontaigne  lodged — as 
faithful  messengers  of  tJie  grateful  affection  entertained  far 
you  by  your  companion,  of  the  present  tvinter. 

PAUL  BOUROET: 

Paris,  November  16,  1892. 


COSMOPOLIS. 


A  DILETTANTE  AND  A  BELIEVER. 

Althoug-h  the  narrow  shop,  overflowing  with  piles  of 
books  and  papers,  left  the  visitor  merely  room  to  stir, 
and  although  the  visitor  was  an  habitual  customer,  the 
old  book-dealer  did  not  condescend  to  rise  from  the 
stool  on  which  he  sat  writing  on  a  movable  desk.  At 
the  sound  of  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door,  he 
scarcely  raised  his  odd,  wild  head  with  its  long  white 
hair  streaming  out  from  a  felt  hat  with  broad  brim  that 
had  once  been  black.  He  showed  to  the  new-comer  the 
fleshless,  drawn  countenance  of  a  monomaniac,  in  which 
there  twinkled,  behind  his  round  spectacles,  two  brown 
eyes  of  roguish  fierceness.  Then  the  hat  plunged  down 
on  the  paper  which  his  knotty,  black-nailed  fingers 
deftly  covered  with  scratched  out,  sprawling  lines  in  a 
handwriting  worthy  of  another  age,  and,  from  his  thin 
but  gigantic  chest,  wrapped  in  a  jacket  now  greenish 
with  age,  a  worn-out  voice — the  voice  of  a  man  choked 
by  incurable  laryngitis — issued  and,  by  way  of  excuse, 
said  in  a  strong  Italian  accent,  the  French  phrase : 
"  One  moment.  Marquis  ;  the  Muse  will  not  wait." 
"  Well  then,  I  will  wait,  for  I  am  not  the  Muse.  Get 
up  your  inspiration,  Ribalta,  at  your  leisure,"  was  the 
reply  from  the  person  whom  the  dealer  in  old  books 
had  received  with  such  carelessness.  He  was  evidently 
accustomed  to  the  eccentricities  of  this  strange  shop- 


2  COSMOPOLIS. 

keeper.  But  at  Rome — for  this  little  comedy  of  man- 
ners was  played  in  a  ground  floor  at  the  end  of  one  of 
the  oldest  streets  of  the  Eternal  City,  a  few  paces  from 
that  Piazza  di  Spag-na  so  well  known  to  travellers — in 
that  city  which  forms  a  point  to  which  flow  so  many 
destinies  from  all  parts  of  the  world — is  not  the  sensa- 
tion of  strangeness  destroyed  by  the  very  multiplicity 
of  singular  and  abnormal  types  that  are  stranded  or 
sheltered  there  ?  Here  you  will  find  revolutionists  like 
this  rough  Ribalta,  who,  with  a  peaceful  background  of 
bric-a-brac,  lead  lives  more  adventurous  than  the  most 
adventurous  of  the  sixteenth  century.  This  man,  sprung 
from  a  poor  Corsican  family,  had  come  to  Rome  in  early 
youth,  in  1835,  and  had  at  first  been  in  a  seminary.  Just 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  being  ordained,  he  fled  and 
did  not  reappear  till  1849,  when  he  came  back  such  a 
furious  republican  that  he  was  condemned  to  death  ^^er 
contumaciam  on  the  re-establishment  of  the  Papal  gov- 
ernment. Then  he  had  served  as  Mazzini's  secretary, 
and  had  quarrelled  with  him  for  reasons  that  seemed 
not  honorable.  Had  a  passion  for  some  woman,  since 
dead,  drawn  him  into  some  pecuniary  indiscretion  !  In 
any  case,  he  became  more  and  more  radical  and  social- 
istic ;  he  was  in  the  "  One  Thousand  "  and  among  the 
soldiers  of  Mentana,  without  Garibaldi  being  ever  able 
to  conquer,  with  regard  to  him,  a  feeling  of  repugnance, 
all  the  more  remarkable  as  it  was  rare.  After  1870  Ri- 
balta  had  returned  to  Rome,  where  he  opened,  if  we 
can  apply  the  term  to  such  a  hole,  a  petty  bookstore. 
But  he  was  an  amateur  bookseller,  who  would  shut  the 
door  in  your  face  if  you  displeased  him.  As  he  had  a 
little  income,  he  sold,  or  refused  to  sell,  according  to  his 
fancy  and  his  need  of  money  for  his  purchases  ;  to-day 
he  would  ask  you  twenty  francs  for  a  bad  engraving  for 
which  he  had  paid  ten  sous  ;  to-morrow  he  would  let  you 
have  at  a  low  price  a  precious  volume  of  which  he  well 
knew  the  value.  In  his  furious  hatred  of  the  Gallic  race 
he  no  more  pardoned  his  old  general  for  his  campaign 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  3 

at  Dijon  than  he  pardoned  Victor  Emmanuel  for  leaving" 
the  Vatican  to  Pius  IX.     "  The  House  of  Savoy  and  the 
Papacy,"  he  said,  speaking  confidentially  in  his  sick 
voice,  "  are  two  eggs  we  must  eat  in  the  same  dish." 
And  he  would  tell  you  of  a  certain  pillar  in  St.  Peter's, 
which  Bernini  had  hollowed  out  as  a  stairway,  where  a 
cartridge  of  dynamite  had  its  place   already  marked. 
If  you  pressed  him  farther  and  asked  why  he  had  set 
up  as  a  bookseller,  he  would  beg  you  to  step  over  a 
hedge  of  papers,  cardboard  boxes,  and  folio  volumes. 
Then  he  would  show  you  an  immense  room — a  shed 
rather — where  thousands  of  pamphlets  were  piled  along 
and  across  the  walls.     "  These  are  the  rules  of  all  the 
suppressed  convents  of  Italy.     I  shall  w^ite  their  his- 
tory."    Then  he  would  stare  you  out  of  countenance. 
He  feared  you  were  a  spy  sent  by  the  king  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  learning  the  plans  of  his  most  dangerous 
enemy — one  of  those  spies  whom  he  dreaded  so  mucl 
that  no  one  for  twenty  years  had  known  where  he  slept, 
where  he  ate,  where  he  hid  himself  when,  for  a  week 
at  a  time,  the  shutters  of  his  shop  in  the  Strada  Borgo- 
gnona  were  closed.     As  a  result  of  his  past  life  as  a  re- 
doubtable democrat,  and  of    his  clandestine  ways,  he 
was  an-ested,  after  the  attemj)t  at  assassination  by  Pas- 
sanante,  as  one  of  the  members  of  those  Barsanti  Clubs, 
to  which  a  corporal   who  had  turned  rebel  and  been 
shot  as  such,  had  given  his  name.     But  the  police,  after 
rummaging  over  the  dusty  paper-boxes  of  the  ill-man- 
nered bookseller,  found  only  a  prodigious  quantity  of 
grotesque  scrawls  in  verse,  against  the  Piedmontese  and 
the  French,  against  the  Germans  and  the  Triple  Alli- 
ance, against  the  Italian  republicans  and  the  Italian 
ministers,  against  Cavour  and  against  Crisjii,  against  the 
University  of  Rome  and  the  Inquisition,  against  monks 
and  capitalists.     It  was  one  of  these  pasquinades  doubt- 
less, that  this  customer  whom  he  had  received  in  such  an 
abrupt  manner,  watched  him  finishing,  while  he  thought, 
as  he  had  often  done  before,  how  Rome  abounds  in 


4  COSMOPOLIS. 

paradoxical  meetings.  For  in  1867  this  same  old  Gari- 
baldian  had  exchanged  shots  with  the  Papal  Zouaves, 
of  whom  the  Marquis  de  Montfanon — such  was  the  visi- 
tor's name — was  one.  Twenty  years  had  sufficed  to  turn 
the  two  fanatic  soldiers  of  that  time  into  two  inoffensive 
cranks,  one  of  whom  sold  old  volumes  to  the  other. 
Nor  could  you  scarcely  find  elsewhere  a  figure  like  that 
of  the  French  gentleman,  who  had  retired  thither  to  die 
nearer  to  St.  Peter's.  Could  you  believe,  as  you  saw 
him  in  his  heavy  boots,  his  j)lain,  rather  worn,  sack-coat, 
his  soft  hat  covering  his  old  grizzled  head,  that  you  had 
before  you  one  of  the  famous  dandies  of  the  Paris  of 
1864  ?  Listen  to  this  other  story.  Some  pious  scruples 
resulting  from  a  mortal  illness,  had  suddenly  hurled  the 
frequenter  of  the  Cafe  Anglais  and  the  gay  suppers  of 
that  day  into  the  ranks  of  the  Papal  Zouaves.  His  first 
sojourn  at  Rome,  during  the  last  four  years  of  the  gov- 
ernment of  Pius  IX.  in  that  matchless  city,  which  ac- 
quired a  still  more  special  character  by  the  presenti- 
ment of  the  approaching  end  of  a  State  that  had  lived 
for  ages,  by  the  announcement  of  the  Council  and  by 
the  French  occupation,  had  been  an  enchantment.  All 
the  seeds  of  piety,  planted  in  the  breast  of  the  youth  of 
gentle  blood  by  his  education  with  the  Jesuits  of  Bruge- 
lette,  bloomed  out  into  a  harvest  of  noble  virtues  on  the 
day  of  trial.  It  came  too  soon.  Montfanon  passed 
through  the  campaign  in  France  with  the  other  Zou- 
aves, and  the  empty  sleeve,  folded  in  the  place  of  his 
left  arm,  proved  with  what  courage  he  had  fought  at 
Patay,  after  that  sublime  charge  where  the  heroic  Gen- 
eral de  Sonis  flung  out  the  banner  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 
He  had  been  duellist,  sportsman,  gambler,  lover,  but 
now,  to  those  of  his  old  companions  in  pleasure  whom 
chance  brought  to  Rome,  he  was  only  a  devotee  who 
lived  meanly,  in  spite  of  his  still  retaining  fragments  of 
a  large  fortune,  amid  alms-giving,  retreats,  reading,  and 
collecting.  He,  too,  was  a  collector.  All  the  world  ac- 
quires, more  or  less,  this  vice  in  the  city  which  is,  of 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  5 

itself,  tlie  most  astonishing  museum  of  history  and  art. 
Montfanon  was  collecting  documents  for  a  history  of 
the  relations  between  the  French  noblesse  and  the 
Church.  His  mistresses  of  old  days,  when  he  was  a 
rival  of  the  Gramont-Caderousse's  and  the  Demidoffs' 
would  not  have  recognized  him  any  more  than  he  would 
have  recognized  them.  But  were  they  as  light-hearted 
as  he  seemed  to  be  in  his  life  of  renunciation  ?  There 
was  laughter  in  the  blue  eyes  which  attested  his  Ger- 
manic origin,  and  which  lighted  up  his  strongly  marked 
countenance,  one  of  those  feudal  faces  that  we  see  on 
the  walls  of  the  priories  of  Malta,  where  even  ugliness 
shows  race.  A  heavy  whitening  mustache,  with  a  vague 
gold  tint  playing  through  its  density,  half-concealed  a 
scar  which  would  have  given  to  that  rather  red  face  a 
formidable  look,  but  for  the  expression  of  the  eyes,  in 
which  fervor  and  gayety  were  blended.  For  Montfanon 
was  as  fanatic  on  certain  subjects  as  he  was  a  good  fel- 
low on  others.  If  he  had  the  power,  he  would,  most 
certainly,  have  arrested,  tried,  and  condemned  Ribal- 
ta,  for  example,  for  the  crime  of  free-thinking,  within 
twenty-four  hours.  As  he  did  not  have  it,  he  amused 
himself  with  him,  all  the  more  as  the  vanquished  Cath- 
olic and  the  discontented  socialist  had  some  hatreds  in 
common.  We  have  seen  how  this  morning  he  endured 
the  rude  salutation  of  the  old  bookseller,  while  he  stood 
looking  at  him,  a  good  ten  minutes,  without  troubling 
himself  further  about  it.  At  last  the  uncouth  revolu- 
tionist seemed  to  have  found  the  point  of  his  epigram, 
for,  with  an  evil,  silent  laugh,  he  carefully  folded  the 
sheet  and  placed  it  in  a  wooden  box  of  which  he  turned 
the  key.  Then,  raising  his  long,  thin  frame,  he  asked 
without  other  excuse : 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Marquis  ? " 

"  First  of  all,  you  might  read  me  your  piece,  old  Red 
Shirt,"  said  Montfanon,  "  if  only  to  repay  me  for  wait- 
ing your  good  pleasure  as  patiently  as  an  ambassador. 
Come  now,  whom  are  you  attacking  in  your  verses  ?  Don 


6  COSMOPOLIS. 

Ciccio  or  His  Majesty  ?  Will  you  not  answer  ?  Are  you 
afraid  of  my  informing  the  Quirinal  ?  " 

"  In  hocca  chima  non  c'entra  mosca"  *  replied  the  old 
conspirator,  justifying^  the  proverb  by  the  style  in 
which  he  closed  his  toothless  mouth,  into  which,  indeed, 
at  the  moment,  not  a  fly,  not  a  grain  of  dust  could  enter, 

"  Good  old  saw,"  replied  the  Marquis,  laughing  ;  "  that 
I  should  like  to  see  engraved  on  the  front  of  all  modern 
parliament  houses.  But  between  your  poetry  and  your 
proverbs,  have  you  had  time  to  write  for  me  to  the  old 
book-man  of  Vienna  who  has  the  last  copy  of  the  undis- 
coverable  pamphlet  on  the  trial  of  that  ruffian  Haf- 
ner  ?  " 

"  Patience,"  replied  the  shopkeeper,  "  I  will  write." 

"And  my  documents  on  the  siege  of  Rome  by  the 
Constable  de  Bourbon,  the  three  notarial  acts  which 
you  promised  me — have  you  hunted  them  up  for  me  ?  " 

"  Patience,  patience,"  repeated  the  shopkeeper,  adding, 
as  he  pointed  with  a  comic  mixture  of  irony  and  des- 
pair, to  the  frightful  disorder  of  his  shop.  "  How  can 
you  expect  me  to  find  my  way  through  this  ?  " 

"  Patience,  patience,"  repeated  Montfanon  ;  "  you  have 
been  warbling  that  refrain  for  a  month.  If,  instead  of 
composing  bad  verses  you  were  to  occupy  yourself  with 
your  correspondence,  and  if,  instead  of  always  buying, 
you  were  to  classify  this  heap  of  stuff —  Besides,"  he 
said,  without  laughing  and  with  an  abrupt  gesture,  "  I  am 
wrong  to  reproach  you  for  your  purchases,  since  I  have 
come  to  talk  about  one  of  your  latest.  Cardinal  Gucril- 
lot  told  me  that  j'^ou  had  shown  him  the  other  day  a 
Bock  of  Hours,  in  bad  condition  but  interesting,  which 
you  had  found  in  Tuscany.    "Where  is  it  ? " 

"  Here  it  is,"  cried  Ribalta ;  then  stepping  over  some 
piles  of  volumes  and  kicking  aside  a  huge  mass  of  paper 
boxes,  he  indicated  a  dusty  drawer  in  a  tottering  old 
press.  In  the  drawer,  amid  an  indescribable  mass  of 
fragmentary  things,  old  medals  and  old  nails,  empty 

*  No  flies  get  into  a  shut  mouth. 


A   DILETTANTE  AND   A   BELIEVER.  7 

bindinj^s,  and  discolored  engraving's,  he  picked  up  a 
large,  worm-eaten  leather  case  on  which  a  half-effaced 
coat  of  arms  could  be  traced.  He  opened  the  case  and 
handed  to  Montfanon  a  volume  of  which  the  wooden 
binding-,  also  covered  with  leather  and  studded,  was  fall- 
ing in  pieces.  One  of  the  clasps  was  broken,  and  when 
the  Marquis  turned  over  the  leaves,  he  could  see  that 
the  inside  was  in  no  better  condition  than  the  outside. 
Some  illuminations  had  originally  adorned  the  precious 
work,  but  they  were  nearly  all  effaced.  The  yellow  parch- 
ment was  torn  in  places.  In  fact,  it  was  a  mere  shapeless 
ruin  that  this  curious  visitor  examined  with  the  great- 
est care,  till  Ribalta  this  time'  made  up  his  mind  to 
speak. 

"  It  was  a  widow  at  Montalcino,  in  Tuscany,  who  sold  it 
to  me.  She  asked  an  enormous  price  and  it  is  worth  it, 
although  a  little  damaged.  The  miniatures  are  by  Mat- 
teo  da  Siena,  who  made  them  for  Pope  Pius  II,  Picco- 
lomini.  Look  at  the  one  with  St.  Biagio  blessing  the 
lions  and  panthers ;  it  is  the  best  preserved  one.  Is  it 
fine  enough  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  try  to  cheat  me,  Ribalta  ? "  Monfanon 
broke  in,  with  an  impatient  gesture.  "  You  know  bet- 
ter than  I,  that  these  miniatures  are  mediocre,  and  do 
not  recall  to  any  extent  the  close  handiwork  of  Matteo. 
Another  proof,  this  Book  of  Hours  is  dated.  .  ,  1554, 
Look — "  and  with  his  solitary  hand,  he  very  adroitly 
pointed  to  the  figures — "and  as  I  have  a  memory  for 
dates,  and  have  been  occupying-  myself  with  Siena,  I 
have  not  forgotten  that  Matteo  died  before  1500.  Now, 
as  I  am  not  a  pupil  of  Macchiavelli,"  he  continued,  with 
some  abruptness,  "I  will  tell  you  wl^at  the  Cardinal 
would  have  told  you,  if  you  had  not  attempted  to  hood- 
wink him  with  your  fine  strokes  as  you  tried  with  me  just 
now.  .  .  ,  Look  at  this  half-effaced  signature  which 
you  have  not  known  how  to  read.    I  will  decipher  it  for 

you,     Blaise  de  Mo then  a  *  c '  with  some  letters 

missing,  just  three.    That  makes  Montluc,  in  the  writing" 


8  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  the  time,  and  the  *  b,'  traced  in  a  hand  which  you  may 
go  and  verify  in  the  archives  of  Siena,  if  you  come  to  that, 
is  a  lower  case  *  b,'  but  large  and  tall.  .  .  .  And  now 
for  the  coat  of  arms,"  and  he  closed  the  book  to  explain 
to  the  astonished  dealer  the  arms  scarcely  visible  on 
the  cover.  "  Do  you  recognize  a  wolf,  which  originally 
must  have  been  w,  and  these  tourteaux,  which  must  have 
been  gules  ?  These  are  the  arms  that  Montluc  bore  since 
that  year  1554  when  he  was  made  a  citizen  of  Siena,  for 
having  defended  it  so  bravely  against  the  terrible  Mar- 
quis de  Marignan.  As  for  the  case,"  and  he  took  it  up  in 
turn  to  study  it,  "  there  are  the  half-moons  of  the  Picco- 
lomini.  But  what  does  this  prove  ?  That  after  the  siege, 
when  he  was  about  to  return  to  Montalcino,  Montluc 
gave  his  Book  of  Hours,  as  a  kind  of  souvenir,  to  some 
of  that  family.  Then  the  volume  was  lost,  stolen  very 
likely,  and  finally  reduced  to  the  state  in  which  we  find 
it.  Here  is  another  proof,  here  in  this  book,  that  a  few 
drops  of  French  blood  have  been  shed  in  the  service  of 
Italy.  But  those  who  sold  it  have  forgotten  that,  as 
they  have  forgotten  Magenta  and  Solferino.  Here  you 
have  no  memory  but  for  hate.  Now  that  you  know  why 
I  want  to  have  your  Book  of  Hours,  will  you  part  with 
it  for  five  hundred  francs  ?  " 

The  bookseller  listened  to  this  discourse  with  a  score 
of  contradictoiy  ideas  passing  over  his  face.  He  always 
felt  for  Montfanon  a  sort  of  respect  mingled  with  ani- 
mosity, which  visibly  rendered  him  distressed  at  being 
caught  in  a  flagrant  falsehood.  To  be  just,  we  must  add 
that,  in  speaking  of  the  great  painter  Matteo  and  the 
great  Pope  Pius  II.  in  connection  with  this  unhappy 
volume,  he  did  not  imagine  that  the  Marquis,  usually 
very  economical,  and  confining  his  purchases  strictly  to 
the  domain  of  ecclesiastical  history,  had  the  slightest 
wish  for  this  Book  of  Hours.  He  had  magnified  it  with 
the  idea  of  making  a  pretty  legend  about  it,  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  ignorance  of  some  rich  amateur.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  the  name  of  Montluc  meant  nothing 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  9 

to  him,  it  was  not  the  same  case  with  the  direct  and 
oifensive  allusion  made  by  the  speaker  to  the  war  of 
1859.  This  is  the  thorn  always  plunged  into  the  heart 
of  those  of  our  neig-hbors  beyond  the  Alps  who  do  not 
love  us.  The  pride  of  the  Garibaldian  would  not  lag- 
behind  the  generosity  of  the  old  Zouave.  With  an 
abruptness  equal  to  that  of  Montfanon,  he  took  back  the 
volume,  and  growled  out,  as  he  turned  it  over  in  his  ink- 
stained  fingers : 

"  I  would  not  sell  it  for  six  hundred  francs.  No,  for 
six  hundred  francs  I  would  not  sell  it." 

"  It  is  a  very  large  sum,"  replied  Montfanon. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  "  I  would  not  sell  it — "  then, 
holding  it  out  to  the  Marquis  in  a  visible  fit  of  rage, 
"  but,  to  you — I  will  give  it  you  for  four  hundred 
francs." 

"  But  when  I  o£fer  you  five  hundred,"  said  the  pur- 
chaser, perplexed.  "And  you  know  that  it  is  a  low 
price  for  such  a  curiosity  ?  " 

"  Take  it  for  four,"  Ribalta  insisted,  more  and  more 
out  of  temper.  "  Not  a  sou  less,  not  a  sou  more.  That 
is  what  it  cost  me.  And  you  shall  have  your  documents 
in  two  days,  and  the  Hafner  report  this  week.  But  the 
Bourbon  who  sacked  Bome,"  he  continued,  "  was  not  he 
a  Frenchman  ?  And  Charles  of  Anjou,  who  fell  upon 
us  to  make  himself  king  of  the  two  Sicilies  ?  And 
Charles  VIII.,  who  entered  by  the  Porta  del  Popolo  ? 
Were  they  not  French  ?  And  Oudinot,  was  not  he 
French  ?  Why  do  they  come  to  meddle  with  us  ?  Ah, 
if  one  reckoned  strictly,  what  do  you  owe  us  ?  Did  we 
not  give  you  Mazarin,  Massena,  and  Bonaparte,  and 
many  others  who  died  in  your  army  in  Bussia,  Spain, 
and  elsewhere  ?  And  at  Dijon  ?  Was  it  not  Garibaldi 
who  went  to  fight  for  you,  like  a  fool,  although  you  had 
robbed  him  of  his  native  country  ?  As  far  as  services 
go,  we  cry  quits.  But  take  away  your  Book  of  Hours, 
and  good  evening,  good  evening.    You  can  pay  me  later." 

He  literally  pushed  the  Marquis  out  of  the  shop, 


10  COSMOPOLIS. 

gesticulatino-  and  fling-ing-  down  the  books  on  all  sides. 
Montfanon  found  himself  in  the  street  before  he  could 
pull  from  his  jjocket  the  money  he  had  ready. 

"  What  a  crank !  Heavens,  what  a  crank  !  "  he  said  to 
himself,  smiling.  He  walked  away  with  a  step  still 
light,  and  gayly,  with  the  precious  book  under  his  arm. 
Then,  as  long  acquaintance  had  familiarized  him  with 
these  southern  natures  in  which  knavery  and  chivalry 
jostle  each  other  without  damage  to  either — these  Don 
Quixotes  with  their  windmills  going — he  asked  himself, 
"  How  much  can  he  have  made  after  having  played  the 
gentleman  before  me  ? "  He  never  knew  how  far  his 
question  was  justified,  nor  that  Eibalta  had  got  the  rare 
volume  in  a  lot  of  papers,  engravings,  and  old  books,  for 
twenty -five  francs  altogether.  Moreover,  on  leaving  the 
shop,  two  chance  events  that  he  encountered  prevented 
him  from  meditating  on  this  problem  of  commercial 
psychology.  He  stopped  a  moment  at  the  end  of  the 
street  to  cast  a  glance  on  that  Piazza  di  Spagna,  which, 
as  an  old  Roman,  he  loved  as  one  of  the  comers  that  had 
remained  unchanged  during  the  last  thirty  years.  In 
this  early  May  morning,  the  long  Piazza  with  its  winding 
outline  was  truly  charming  with  movement  and  light, 
with  the  brown  tint  of  the  irregular  houses  that  bor- 
dered it  already  wide  awake,  with  the  double  stairs  of 
Trinita  dei  Monti  strewn  with  idlers,  with  the  water 
springing  from  the  grand  central  fountain  in  the  form  of 
a  bark — one  of  the  countless  caprices  in  which  the  fancy 
of  Bernin  found  diversion — that  marvellous  designer 
who  had  the  genius  for  the  living  fountain,  where  the 
sheet  of  water  enhances  the  chill  of  the  bronze  and  the 
marble.  At  that  hour,  in  that  clear  air,  the  fountain 
was  as  living  as  the  little  gamins  who  ran  about,  hold- 
ing at  the  extremity  of  their  outstretched  hands  baskets 
filled  with  pale  roses,  blond  narcissus,  red  anemone, 
frail  cyclamen,  and  sombre  pansies.  Barefooted,  a 
black  flame  in  their  eyes,  entreaty  on  their  lips,  they 
glided  between  the  carriages  that  passed  on  rapidly, 


A    DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  11 

less  numerous  than  in  the  full  season,  but  still  in  goodly 
number;  for  the  spring  had  been  late  in  coming,  and 
announced  itself  with  delicious  freshness.  The  liower- 
sellers  besieged  hurrying  passers-by,  as  well  as  those 
who  waited  for  the  opening  of  the  stalls ;  and,  fervent 
Catholic  as  Montfanon  was,  he  enjoyed,  before  this  pict- 
uresque scene  of  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  most  beau- 
tiful square  of  his  beloved  city,  the  pleasure  of  com- 
pleting his  impression  of  a  radiant  moment  by  a  dream 
of  eternity.  He  needed  only  to  look  to  the  right,  to- 
ward the  College  of  the  Propaganda,  that  seed-bed  of 
martyrs,  whence  all  the  missions  of  the  world  set  forth. 
It  was  written,  however,  that  this  enthusiastic  gentle- 
man should  enjoj'^  in  peace  neither  his  bibliographic 
bibelot,  which  he  had  got  so  cheaply  and  held  under  his 
solitary  arm,  nor  this  truly  Koman  sensation,  a  sudden 
glance  on  things  above,  caught  at  the  turning  of  a 
street,  at  a  corner  of  the  footpath.  For  his  clear  eyes 
lost  their  serene  look  when  a  carriage  passed  close  to 
him,  drawn,  in  spite  of  the  early  hour,  by  two  magnifi- 
cent black  horses.     Two  ladies  sat  in"  it  conversing. 

Evidently  one  of  them  was  an  inferior,  some  dame  de 
coynpagnie  who  acted  as  a  chaperon  for  the  other,  a 
young  girl  of  almost  sublime  beauty,  with  large  black 
ej'^es  which  burned  in  a  pale  complexion  of  a  warm  and 
living  pallor.  The  Oriental  purity  of  her  profile  realized 
too  completely  the  type  of  Jewish  beauty  to  leave  any 
doubt  of  the  Hebraic  origin  of  this  striking  figure,  this 
veritable  vision  which,  as  the  poet  says,  ought  "  to  draw 
all  hearts  after  her."  But  it  did  not  do  so  now :  the  jovi- 
al, kindly  physiognomy  of  the  Marquis  was  suddenly 
clouded  with  wrinkles  of  annoyance  at  the  sight  of  this 
young  girl,  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  and 
exchanged  a  salutation  with  a  very  gentlemanly-looking 
young  man.  The  latter  knew  well  the  old  Pontifical 
Zouave,  for  he  greeted  him'  in  a  familiar  and  bantering 
tone,  and  in  French  which,  from  its  purity,  had  plainly 
come  straight  from  France. 


12  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  Ha !  Ha !  I've  caug-lit  you  in  the  fact,  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  Claude  Francois  de  Montfanon.  She  came, 
you  saw,  you  were  conquered !  Were  you  not  devour- 
ing her  with  your  eyes — the  divine  Fanny  Hafner? 
Tremble !  I  shall  give  information  to  his  Eminence 
Cardinal  Guerillot,  and  when  you  begin  to  abuse  his 
charming  catechist,  I  will  come  and  bear  witness  that 
I  saw  you  hypnotized  as  she  drove  past,  as  the  Trojans 
were  by  Helen.  I  am  sure  Helen  never  had  that  mod- 
em grace,  that  soul  in  her  beauty,  that  ideal  profile, 
that  deep  gaze,  that  dreamy  mouth,  and  that  smile !  How 
handsome  she  is !  When  do  you  want  to  be  introduced  ?  " 

"  If  Master  Julien  Dorsenne,"  Montfanon  replied,  in 
the  same  bantering  tone,  "  does  not  put  more  observa- 
tion into  his  next  novel  than  he  exhibits  at  this  minute, 
I  am  sorry  for  his  publisher.  Come  here,"  he  added,  ab- 
ruptly, and  drew  the  young  man  to  the  comer  of  the  Via 
Borgognona  ;  "  you  see  the  victoria  stop  before  No.  13  ? 
and  the  divine  Fanny,  as  you  call  her,  step  out  ?  She 
goes  to  the  shop  of  that  old  scamp,  Eibalta.  She  will 
not  stay  there  long.  Look,  she  is  coming  out,  and  off 
she  drives  in  her  carriage. 

"  It's  a  pity  she  does  not  come  this  way !  We  should 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  look  of  disappoint- 
ment. Here  is  what  she  went  to  get,"  he  added  with  a 
gay  laugh,  holding  out  his  purchase,  "and  she  shall 
never  have  it,  even  if  she  were  to  oflfer  all  the  millions 
that  her  good,  honest  father  stole  from  the  swells  of  Vi- 
enna. Ha-ha !  "  he  concluded,  with  a  louder  laugh ;  "  M. 
de  Montfanon  got  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  has  not 
wasted  his  time.  And,  my  author  of  novels  of  observa- 
tion, guess  what  it  is  that  I  haA^e  saved  from  falling  into 
the  hands  of  that  little  mountebank,  who  shall  not  make 
a  toy  of  this  thing,  at  least  ?  "  and  he  looked  at  his 
friend  with  the  most  comic  air  of  triumph. 

"  I  need  not  look  at  the  volume,"  replied  Dorsenne. 
"  Yes,  yes ! "  he  continued,  as  Montfanon  shrugged  his 
shoulders ;  "  as  a  novelist  and  as  an  observer,  since  you 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVE!!.  13 

fling-  that  epithet  at  my  head,  I  know  already  what  it  is. 
What  will  you  bet  ?  It  is  a  Book  of  Hours,  with  the 
signature  of  Marshal  de  Montluc,  which  Cardinal  Gue- 
rillot  discovered.  Am  I  not  right  ?  He  spoke  of  it  to 
Mdlle.  Hafner,  and  thought  lie  would  disarm  your  hos- 
tility against  her  by  telling  you  that  she  had  an  enthu- 
siastic desire  to  buy  the  book.  Am  I  not  right  ?  And 
then  you,  wicked  man,  had  only  one  idea,  to  steal  away 
this  bibelot  from  the  poor  little  girl.  Am  I  not  right  ? 
I  am  not  even  sure  that  you  care  for  the  book,  while 
she !  The  day  before  yesterday  we  passed  the  even- 
ing together  at  the  Countess  Steno's ;  she  did  nothing 
but  tell  her  joy  of  having  the  volume  from  which  that 
great  soldier — that  great  believer,  had  prayed.  In  fact, 
she  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of  heroic  convic- 
tions. I  fancied,  upon  my  word,  that  I  was  listening  to 
you.  She  must  have  gone  to  buy  it  yesterday.  But 
the  shop  was  shut  up,  I  remarked  in  passing ;  and  you 
had  been  there,  also,  beyond  dispute.  Am  I  not  right 
again  ?  And  now,  when  I  have  told  you  your  whole 
story,  step  by  step,  explain  to  me  why  you,  who  are  a 
just  man,  pursue  with  an  antipathy  so  bitter  and  so 
childish — pardon  the  epithet — an  innocent  young  girl 
who  has  never  speculated  on  the  Bourse,  who  is  as  char- 
itable as  a  whole  convent,  and  who  is  in  a  fair  way  of 
becoming  as  pious  and  orthodox  as  yourself  ?  If  her 
father  had  not  refused  to  hear  a  word  about  conversion 
before  her  marriage,  she  would  have  been  already  a 
Catholic ;  and,  Protestants  as  they  are  for  the  present 
ten  minutes,  she  never  goes  out  except*  to  a  Church. 
But  when  she  is  a  Catholic  complete,  under  the  protec- 
tion of  Saint  Claudine  and  Saint  Frangoise,  as  you  are 
under  Saint  Claude  and  Saint  Francois,  you  will  have 
to  lay  down  your  arms,  old  Leaguer,  and  acknowledge 
the  sincerity  of  the  religious  sentiments  of  this  girl  who 
never  has  done  anything  to  you." 

*'  What !  Done  nothing  to  me !  "  Montfanon  broke  in. 
"  It  is  quite  natural  for  a  sceptic  not  to  comprehend 


14  COSMOPOLIS. 

what  she  has  done  to  me — what  she  is  doing-  every  day — 
not  to  me  personally,  but  to  my  ideas.  A  man  like  you, 
an  intellectual  acrobat  in  the  circus  of  Sainte-Beuve 
and  Renan,  must  deem  it  very  fine  to  see  Catholicism — 
that  great  fact — serve  as  a  spoilt  for  this  daughter  of  a 
stock  exchange  wrecker,  who  aims  at  an  aristocratic 
marriage.  Your  irony  may  be  amused  by  knowing 
that  my  saintly  friend  Cardinal  Guerillot  is  the  dupe  of 
this  intriguer.  But  I,  sir,  who  have  taken  the  Holy 
Communion  by  the  side  of  General  de  Sonis  on  the 
mornings  of  battle,  cannot  tolerate  the  use  of  what  was 
the  faith  of  that  hero,  and  what  is  my  faith,  as  a  means 
of  pushing  one's  self  up  in  the  world.  I  cannot  toler- 
ate that  anyone  should  make  an  old  man,  whom  I  ven- 
erate— and  whose  eyes  I  will  open,  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor — play  the  part  of  dupe  and  accomplice.  As 
for  this  relic,"  again  holding  out  the  volume,  "  you  may 
think  it  puerile,  that  I  did  not  wish  to  see  it  turned  into 
a  property  for  this  comedy.  I  do  not  think  so.  And  it 
never  shall  be  a  property  in  this  comedy.  No  one  shall 
display  with  moistened  eyes,  fine  phrases,  affected 
looks,  this  breviary  used  by  the  great  soldier  ;  yes,  sir, 
the  great  believer  who  would  have  given  a  short  shrift 
and  a  high  gallows  to  you,  and  her,  and  Eibalta,  too — 
and  he  would  not  have  been  far  wrong.  Done  noth- 
ing to  me  ! "  he  cried,  with  increasing  warmth  and  face 
reddening  with  anger.  "  People  like  her  and  her  father 
are  the  quintessence  of  all  I  despise  most.  Base,  cos- 
mopolite adventurers,  who  play  at  being  grand  sei- 
gneurs with  millions  purloined  by  filibustering  on  the 
Bourse,  the  incarnation  of  the  modem  world  in  all 
that  is  most  hateful!  They  have  no  country,  to  begin 
with.  Who  is  this  Baron  Justus  Hafner  ?  Is  he  Aus- 
trian, German,  Italian  ?  Do  you  know  ?  They  have 
no  religion.  The  name,  the  face  of  the  father  and 
daughter  proclaim  them  Jews,  but  they  are  Protes- 
tants— for  the  next  ten  minutes,  as  you  correctly  said  ; 
till  they  become  schismatics,  Mohammedans,  no  matter 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  15 

what !  For  tlie  next  ten  minutes,  when  the  question  is 
of  God !  They  have  no  family.  Where  was  he  brought 
up  1  What  were  his  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters  ? 
What  family  traditions  has  he  ?  Where  is  his  past,  that 
past  which  forms  and  consolidates  the  moral  nature  of  a 
man  ?  Examine  things  a  bit.  All  is  darkness  about  this 
fellow,  except  this  one  fact ;  that  if  there  had  been 
judges  in  Vienna,  after  the  trial  of  the  case  of  the  Aus- 
tro-Dalmatian  Credit  Company,  he  would  have  been  in 
the  galleys  instead  of  in  Rome.  These  are  the  facts. 
The  ruin  was  indescribable.  I  know  something  about 
it.  My  poor  cousin,  Saint  Eemy,  who  was  in  the  house- 
hold of  Monseigneur,  the  Count  of  Chambord,  lost  the 
support  of  his  old  age  and  the  dowry  of  his  child. 
There  were  suicides — horrible  crimes — especially  that 
of  a  certain  Schroeder,  who  became  insane  after  the 
crash  and  killed  himself,  after  killing  his  wife  and  his 
two  children.  But  M.  le  Baron  came  out  scathless. 
This  was  only  ten  years  ago,  and  it  is  forgotten,  and 
when  he  comes  to  Rome  he  finds  doors  open,  hands 
stretched  out,  just  as  he  would  have  found  them  at 
Madrid,  London,  or  Paris,  indeed,  for  all  Europe  is 
alike  since  '89.  And  people  go  to  his  house,  people 
receive  him.  And  you  want  me  to  believe  in  the  relig- 
ious sentiments  of  this  man's  daughter !  No !  a  thou- 
sand times,  no !  You  yourself,  Dorsenne,  with  your  craze 
for  paradox  and  sophistry,  you  have  a  good  heart  at 
bottom,  and  these  people  horrify  you  as  they  do  me ! " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  replied  the  novelist,  who 
had  been  looking  at  the  Marquis  as  he  uttered  this 
tirade  with  visible  interest,  but  yet  with  a  smile  of  only 
half  conviction ;  "  not  the  least  in  the  world.  You  called 
me  an  acrobat.  I  do  not  care,  as  it  is  you,  and  you  are  a 
good  friend.  Let  me  have  the  acrobat's  agility.  First, 
then,  before  I  express  an  opinion  on  a  financial  aflfair,  I 
shall  wait  till  I  know  all  about  it.  Hafner  was  acquit- 
ted. That's  enough  for  me.  Point  number  one.  He 
might  be  the  worst  of  scoundrels,  but  would  that  pre- 


16  COSMOPOLIS. 

vent  his  daughter  from  being  an  angel  ?  Point  number 
two.  As  to  his  cosmopolitism,  which  you  denounce ;  we 
have  not  all  heads  shaped  alike,  and  that  is  the  very- 
thing  I  find  interesting  in  him.  And  point  number 
three — well,  I  believe  I  should  not  have  spent  in  vain  six 
months  in  Eome,  if  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  no- 
body else.  Don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  was  one  of  the  circus 
proprietors,  Uncle  Beuve  or  poor  Kenan  himself," 
touching  the  Marquis  on  the  shoulder.  "  I  swear  I  am 
quite  serious.  Nothing  interests  me  more  than  these 
changes  of  scene,  these  people  who  have  passed  through 
two,  three,  four  forms  of  existence.  These  individuals 
are  my  museum.  You  would  not  have  me  sacrifice  my 
best  specimens'?  And  then,"  and  the  young  man's  eyes 
twinkled  with  the  arch  malice  of  what  he  was  going  to 
say ;  "  abuse  Baron  Hafner  as  much  as  you  will,  call 
him  a  thief  and  snob,  an  intriguer  and  a  knave,  just  as 
you  like.  But  when  you  talk  of  his  being  uprooted,  not 
living  where  his  fathers  lived,  I  will  answer  you  as  Bon- 
homet,  in  the  story  of  our  comrade  Villiers  de  I'lsle 
Adam,  when  he  arrived  at  heaven  and  God  said  to  him, 
'  Still  a  mystifier,  M.  Bonhomet ! '  '  And  you  yourself, 
Lord  ? '  For,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you.  Marquis  de  Mont- 
fanon,  were  bom  in  Burgundy,  of  an  old  family  of  Bur- 
gundy, with  a  chateau  in  Burgundy,  and  vineyards  in 
Burgundy — for  which  I  congratulate  you — and  here  you 
are,  settled  in  Eome  for  twenty-four  years;  which  is 
equivalent  to  saying,  in  the  Cosmopolis  that  you  were 
cursing!  " 

"In  the  first  place,"  replied  the  old  soldier  of  the 
Pope,  showing  his  empty  sleeve,  "I  do  not  count.  I  do 
not  live.  I  am  trying  to  die.  Furthermore,"  and  his 
face  took  a  new  glow  of  exaltation,  and  the  real  basis, 
the  seldom-seen  depths  of  this  narrow  intelligence, 
often  blind,  but  always  high,  suddenly  was  revealed. 
"  Furthermore,  my  Rome,  sir,  has  nothing  in  common 
with  that  of  M.  Hafner,  nor  with  yours,  since  you  come 
here,  it  seems,  to  study  modem  comparative  teratology. 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A    BELIEVER.  17 

Rome  to  me  is  not  Cosmopolis,  as  you  call  it,  but  Metrop- 
olis, the  mother-city.  You  forget  that  I  am  Catholic  in 
every  breath  I  draw ;  here  I  am  at  home,  in  my  soul's 
fatherland.  I  am  here  because  I  am  a  monarchist,  be- 
cause I  believe  in  old  France  as  you  believe  in  the 
modern  world.  And  I  serve  her,  my  dear  old  France, 
in  my  fashion,  which  is  not  perhaps  very  efficacious,  but 
is  one  all  the  same.  The  office  of  administrator  of  St. 
Louis,  which  I  accepted  from  Corcelle,  is  my  post,  and  I 
mount  g'uard  there  as  of  old  in  war,  as  best  I  can.  Ah, 
that  old  France  !  How  one  feels  her  grandeur  here,  and 
what  a  swathe  she  cut  through  Christendom !  This  is  the 
chord  I  should  like  to  see  vibrate  in  a  writer  as  eloquent 
as  you,  and  not  these  paradoxes  always,  and  always  these 
sophisms.  But  what  do  you  care,  you  who  date  from 
yesterday,  and  who  boast  of  it,"  he  continued,  almost 
sadly,  "that  there  are  centuries  of  your  history  in  the 
smallest  corners  of  this  city  ?  Does  your  heart  beat  at 
seeing-  on  the  facade  of  this  church  of  St.  Louis  the  sal- 
amander of  Francis  I.  and  the  lilies  ?  Do  you  even  know 
why  this  Yia  Borgognona  is  so  called,  and  that  two 
steps  hence  is  our  church,  Saint  Claude  of  the  Bur- 
gundians  %  Have  you,  who  come  from  the  Vosges,  vis- 
ited the  church  of  your  province,  Saint  Nicolas  of  Lor- 
raine %  And  Saint  Yves  of  Brittany — do  you  know  it  ? 
But,"  and  his  tone  became  gayer,  "you  are  taking  it 
out  of  me,  to  use  your  abominable  slang,  in  making  me 
charge  home  on  this  scoundrel  Hafner.  I  did  so  with- 
out bargaining,  for  I  speak  to  you,  as  I  think,  with  my 
whole  heart,  although  for  you  it  is  all  mere  badinage. 
You'll  be  punished  for  it,  for  I'll  not  leave  you — ^I  will 
lead  you  into  that  France  of  the  days  of  yore.  You  will 
breakfast  with  me,  and  afterward  we  will  make  the  tour 
of  the  churches  I  have  just  named.  During  that  hour 
we  shall  live  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  in  a  world 
where  there  were  no  cosmopolites,  no  dilettanti,  no  gen- 
tlemen of  the  stock  exchange.  It  was  the  old  world, 
but  it  was  strong,  and  the  proof  is  that  it  has  reached 


18  C0SM0P0LI8. 

old  age — that  is  to  say,  has  lasted,  while  your  society, 
sprung-  from  the  Revolution — where  is  it,  after  one  hun- 
dred years  in  France,  Italy,  soon  in  England,  too,  thanks 
to  that  detestable  Gladstone  whose  pride  would  make 
him  a  new  Nebuchadnezzar.  Your  society  is  like  Rus- 
sia, to  quote  the  only  bright  saying  of  the  filthy  Did- 
erot, rotten  before  it  is  ripe.    Will  you  come  1 " 

"  Don't  take  it  as  a  refusal,"  replied  the  author,  "  for 
you  are  wrong  if  you  believe  I  do  not  love  that  old 
France  of  yours — which  does  not  prevent  me  from 
heartily  enjoying  the  new  France.  Bordeaux  and 
champagne  go  well  enough  together.  But  I  am  not  at 
liberty.  I  have  to  visit  this  morning  the  exhibition  at 
the  Castagna  Palace " 

"  You  won't  do  that !  "  cried  the  impetuous  Montf anon, 
whose  stern  face  showed  one  of  those  fits  of  contrariety 
which  he  relieved  by  passionate  tirades  when  he  was 
with  some  one  he  liked  as  well  as  Dorsenne.  "  You 
would  not  have  gone,  confound  it ! — to  see  the  king  mur- 
dered in  '93  ?  It  is  just  as  tragic  a  thing,  this  putting 
up  to  auction  the  old  dwelling  of  Pope  Urban  VII.,  the 
successor  of  Sixtus  V.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  death- 
agony  of  that  other  grand  thing,  the  Roman  nobility. 
I  know,  I  know.  They  deserve  it  all,  because  they 
did  not  die  on  the  last  steps  of  the  Vatican  when  the 
Italians  took  the  city.  We  would  have  done  it,  who 
have  no  popes  among  our  grand-uncles,  if  we  had  not 
been  occupied  in  fighting  elsewhere.  Still,  it  is  no  less 
a  pitj'^  to  see  the  auctioneer's  hammer  fall  on  a  palace 
that  holds  centuries  of  history.  By  my  life,  were  I 
Prince  of  Ardea,  had  I  inherited  the  blood,  the  house, 
the  titles  of  Castagna,  and  had  to  think  that  I  should 
leave  behind  me  nothing  of  what  my  fathers  had  gath- 
ered, I  swear  to  you,  Dorsenne,  I  would  die  of  grief. 
Just  think  that  this  unfortunate  boy  is  a  spoiled  child 
of  twenty-eight,  surrounded  by  flatterers,  without  kin- 
dred, without  friends,  without  advisers,  that  he  staked 
his  patrimony  at  the  Bourse  against  bandits  like  Haf- 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  19 

ner,  that  all  the  treasures  amassed  by  a  line  of  popes, 
cardinals,  warriors,  diplomatists,  will  go  to  enrich 
treacherous  brokers  or  dishonest  speculators — well,  you 
will  find  the  business  too  lamentable  a  one  for  you  to 
meddle  with,  even  as  a  spectator.    Come,  I  will  take 

you  to  Saint  Claude's " 

"  I  must  repeat  that  I  am  waited  for,"  said  Dorsenne, 
releasing  the  arm  that  his  despotic  friend  has  grasped, 
"  and  it  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to  meet  you  on  my 
way  to  keep  my  appointment.  I  dote  on  contrasts, 
but  I  shall  not  have  wasted  my  time.  Have  you  the 
patience  to  listen  to  the  list  of  persons  I  am  going  to 
meet  ?  It  will  not  be  long,  but  do  not  interrupt  me. 
You  will  be  indignant,  if  you  survive  the  thrust  I  give 
you.  Ah!  you  do  not  like  me  to  call  Eome  Cosmop- 
olis.  What  will  you  say  of  the  company  with  which,  in 
twenty  minutes,  I  shall  visit  the  old  palace  of  Urban 
VII.  ?  We  shall  have  your  fair  enemy  Fanny  Hafner, 
in  the  first  place,  and  her  baron  of  a  father,  to  represent 
a  bit  of  Germany,  a  bit  of  Austria,  a  bit  of  Italy,  and 
a  bit  of  Holland,  for  the  baron's  mother,  it  seems,  was 
from  Rotterdam.  We  shall  have  the  Countess  Steno  to 
represent  Venice,  and  her  charming  daughter  Alba  to 
represent  a  corner  of  Bussia,  for  the  record  says  she  is  not 
the  daughter  of  the  late  Count  Steno,  but  of  Werekiew, — 
Andrew,  you  know,  who  killed  himself  at  Paris,  five  or 
six  years  ago,  by  flinging  himself  into  the  Seine,  a  not 
very  aristocratic  death,  from  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde. 
We  shall  have  a  painter,  the  famous  Lincoln  Maitland, 
to  represent  America.  He  is,  at  present,  the  lover  of 
the  Steno  whom  he  has  filched  from  Gorka  while  the 
latter  is  travelling  in  Poland.  We  shall  have  the  paint- 
er's wife,  Lydia  Maitland,  and  her  brother,  Florent 
Chapron,  to  represent  a  bit  of  France,  a  bit  of  America, 
and  a  bit  of  Africa.  For  their  good  father  was  the  cele- 
brated General  Chapron,  mentioned  in  the  MemoriaJ, 
who  after  1815  went  to  be  a  planter  in  Alabama.  This 
old  soldier  had  no  prejudices.     He  had  by  a  mulatto 


20  COSMOPOLIS. 

woman  a  sou  whom  he  recognized,  and  to  whom  he  left  I 
don't  know  how  many  dollars.  Inde  Lydia  and  Florent. 
Do  not  interrupt  me ;  it  is  nearly  finished.  We  shall 
have  to  represent  England,  still  catholic  and  wedded  to 
Poland,  Madame  Gorka,  the  wife  of  Boleslas,  and,  last 
of  all,  Paris  in  the  form  of  your  humble  servant.  It  is 
now  my  turn  to  try  to  take  you  with  me,  for  if  you  will 
join  our  crowd,  you  the  feudal  seigneur,  it  would  be 
complete.    Will  you  come  % " 

"And  you  would  take  it  out  of  my  poor  old  gray 
head,  in  this  fashion ! "  replied  Montfanon.  "  Yet  he  has 
talent,  the  poor  fellow,"  he  said,  speaking  of  Dorsenne 
as  if  he  were  not  there ;  "  he  has  written  ten  pages  on 
Bhodes  as  good  as  Chateaubriand;  he  has  received 
from  God  the  most  precious  gifts,  poetry,  soul,  a  sense 
of  history,  and  .now — what  a  society  he  loves.  But 
come,  now,  once  for  all,  explain  to  me  what  pleasure 
even  your  talents  can  find  in  the  society  of  this  interna- 
tional Bohemia,  with  more  or  less  gilding  about  it,  in 
which  there  is  not  a  soul  in  its  proper  place,  in  its 
proper  surroundings,  or  with  its  proper  antecedents. 
I'll  talk  no  more  of  that  scoundrel  Hafner  and  his 
mountebank  daughter,  since  you,  an  analytical  novel- 
ist, have  the  same  eyes  for  her  as  Monseigneur  Gueril- 
lot  has.  But  this  Countess  Steno — she  must  be  forty — 
with  her  big  daughter  beside  her — ought  she  not  to 
keep  quiet  and  live  in  her  palace  at  Venice,  bravely 
and  honestly,  instead  of  keeping  here  a  kind  of  prome- 
nade-salon through  which  all  the  shoddy  swells  of 
Europe  pass,  and  of  taking  lover  after  lover,  a  Pole 
after  a  Russian,  an  American  after  the  Pole  ?  '  And 
Maitland  ?  TVTiy  did  he  not  obey  the  only  good  senti- 
ment that  his  country  possesses,  the  aversion  for  black 
blood  which  makes  it  impossible  to  find  two  of  his 
countrymen  who  would  do  what  he  has  done,  marry  an 
octoroon,  for  ten  times  as  many  millions,  and  a  half- 
dozen  of  Bonaparte's  marshals  to  boot.  The  young 
wife — it  is  terrible  if  she  is  deceived,  and  it  is  more  ter- 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIPiVER.  21 

rible  if  she  does  not  know  it.  This  Madame  Gorka, 
honest  creature  as  I  believe  she  is,  and  tmly  pious, 
who  has  never  seen  for  two  years  that  her  husband  was 
the  countess'  lover,  and  who  does  not  see  that  noAv  it 
is  Maitland's  turn !  And  poor  Alba  Steno,  a  child  of 
twenty,  dragged  about  in  these  disgusting  intrigues ! 
And  riorent  Chapron  ?  Why  does  he  not  cry  halt !  to 
the  adulterous  adventures  of  his  sister's  husband?  I 
know  him,  that  fellow.  He  came  to  me  about  a  monu- 
ment he  was  going  to  build  at  St.  Louis,  in  memory  of 
his  cousin.  He  respects  the  dead  ;  I  like  him  for  that. 
He  is  but  another  dupe  in  this  sinister  comedy  in  which 
you  are  taking  part,  you  who  know  all  without  your 

heart " 

"  Pardon,  pardon,"  interrupted  Dorsenne  ;  "  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with  that,  you  impracticable  man.  You 
go  on,  and  on  and  on,  and  forget  the  question  before 
us.  I  will  tell  you  what  pleasure  I  find  in  this  human 
mosaic  that  I  have  minutely  described  to  you.  Do  not 
let  us  talk  morality,  if  you  please,  when  the  matter  is 
one  of  intellect  alone.  I  do  not  pique  myself  on  being 
a  judge  of  life.  I  like  to  look  at  it  and  understand  it, 
and  among  all  the  spectacles  it  can  present,  I  know 
none  more  suggestive,  more  special,  more  modern  than 
the  one  here.  You  are  in  a  drawing-room,  at  a  dinner- 
table,  a  party  such  as  I  am  going  to  this  morning. 
You  are  with  a  dozen  persons  who  speak  the  same 
language,  are  dressed  by  the  same  shopkeepers,  read 
the  same  newspaper,  and  believe  they  have  the  same 
ideas  and  the  same  sentiments — only  these  persons  are 
like  those  I  have  just  enumerated,  creatures  come  from 
the  most  diverse  parts  of  the  world  and  of  history. 
You  study  them  with  all  your  knowledge  of  their  ori- 
gin and  their  hereditary  influences,  and,  little  by  little, 
under  the  varnish  of  the  cosmopolite  you  disentangle 
the  race — the  irresistible,  indestructible  race !  In  a 
Madame  Steno,  the  mistress  of  the  house — elegant,  cul- 
tivated, hospitable — you  discover  the  heiress  of  the 


22  COSMOPOLIS. 

Dog-es,  the  patrician  lady  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with 
the  physique  of  a  queen  of  the  seas,  an  energy  in  pas- 
sion, and  a  candor  in  immorality  beyond  compare.  In 
a  Florent  Chapron  or  in  a  Lydia  you  discover  the  prim- 
itive slave,  the  black  hypnotized  by  the  white,  the  un- 
enfranchisable  being  manufactured  by  ages  of  slavery. 
In  a  Madame  Gorka  you  recognize,  under  her  smiling 
amiability,  that  fanaticism  for  the  truth  which  made 
the  English  Puritans ;  while  behind  the  artistic  refine- 
ment of  a  Lincoln  Maitland  you  find  the  squatter  in  his 
invincible  robustness  and  coarseness.  In  Boleslas 
Gorka  you  have  all  the  nervous  irritability  of  the  Slav 
that  ruined  Poland.  These  racial  traits  are  scarcely 
visible  in  the  civilized  man,  who  speaks  fluently  three 
or  four  languages,  who  has  lived  at  Paris,  Nice,  Flor- 
ence, here,  the  same  life  of  elegance,  so  commonplace 
to  look  at  and  so  monotonous.  But  let  passion  give 
a  coup,  let  the  men  be  touched  to  the  bottom,  then 
comes  the  conflict  of  characters,  almost  conflicts  of 
races,  all  the  more  surprising  the  more  remote  the  dis- 
tance whence  come  the  people  thus  met  face  to  face. 
Here  are  the  dramas  where  the  battles  of  race  take 
place  in  a  corner  of  a  salon !  This,  then,  is  why,"  he  con- 
cluded with  a  laugh,  "  that  I  have  spent  six  months  in 
Rome  almost  without  seeing  a  Roman,  occupied  solely 
in  observing  this  little  clan  which  disgusts  you  so  much. 
It  is  perhaps  the  twentieth  one  that  I  have  studied,  and, 
possibly,  I  shall  study  twenty  more  ;  for,  as  they  are  all 
produced  by  fortuitous  concourse  of  individuals,  no  one 
of  them  resembles  another.  Are  you  more  indulgent 
to  me,  now  that  you  have  taken  it  out  of  me  in  making 
me  at  this  corner  of  a  street  indulge  in  dissertation  like 
a  hero  in  a  Russian  romance  ?    Well,  adieu  !  " 

Montfanon  had  listened  to  this  discourse  with  an  ex- 
pression of  countenance  beyond  description.  In  the 
religious  solitude  where  he  was  waiting  for  death,  as  he 
said,  he  felt  no  pleasure  so  vividly  as  interchange  of 
ideas.    He  brought  to  such  discussions  the  fiery  temper 


A   DILETTANTE   AND   A   BELIEVER.  23 

of  a  man  of  ardent  feeling,  and  when  he  met  the  half- 
ironic  dilettanteism  of  Dorsenne,  he  was  disconcerted 
to  a  painful  degree,  all  the  more  that  the  writer  and  he 
had  some  theories  in  common,  particularly  about  hered- 
ity and  race.  But  their  feelings  on  these  topics  were  so 
different  that  this  agreement  in  doctrine  irritated  the 
old  Marquis  as  much  as  it  attracted  him.  A  species  of 
discontented  grimace  distorted  his  expressive  counte- 
nance. He  clicked  his  tongue  in  unconcealed  ill-humor 
and  said : 

"  One  question  more :  The  result  of  all  this  ?  The 
end  of  all  this  ?  What  does  all  this  observation  lead 
you  to?" 

"  What  do  you  want  it  to  lead  to  ?  To  comprehension, 
as  I  have  said,"  replied  Dorsenne. 

"  And  afterward  ? " 

"There  is  no  'afterward'  to  thought,"  replied  the 
young  man.  "  It  is  a  debauch  like  any  other,  but  it 
is  mine." 

"But  among  these  people  whom  you  see  living  thus," 
continued  Montfanon  after  a  silence,  "  there  may  be 
some  whom  you  love  and  whom  you  hate,  whom  you 
despise  and  whom  you  esteem.  Do  you  never  have  an 
idea  that,  with  your  great  intelligence,  you  have  some 
duties  toward  them,  and  may  aid  them  and  raise 
them  ?  " 

"That,"  said  Dorsenne,  "is  another  subject  of  discus- 
sion, which  we  will  resume  another  day,  for  I  am  afraid 
of  being  late.     .     .     .     Adieu ! " 

"Adieu,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  visible  regret  at 
parting  from  his  friend.  Then  abruptly,  "I  do  not 
know  why  I  like  you  so  much,  for  at  bottom  you  em- 
body one  of  the  intellectual  vices  which  horrify  me, 
that  dilettanteism  which  the  disciples  of  M.  Eenan  have 
made  fashionable,  and  which  is  at  the  root  of  deca- 
dence. But  you'll  recover  from  the  attack,  I  have  good 
hopes.  You  are  young  enough."  Then  in  a  good-nat- 
ured mocking  tone,  "  Pleasant  thoughts  as  you  descend 


24  COSMOPOLIS. 

the  Cortile  ;  and  I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  a  commis- 
sion to  give  you  for  one  of  the  actors  in  your  troupe. 
Will  you  tell  Gorka  that  I  have  found  the  book  he  asked 
for  before  he  left,  on  the  nobility  of  Poland." 

"  Gorka ! "  replied  Julien,  "  why,  he  has  been  at 
Warsaw  for  three  months  past,  on  family  affairs.  I 
have  just  told  you  how  his  journey  has  cost  him  his 
mistress." 

"  What,"  said  Montfanon,  "  at  Warsaw !  I  saw  him 
this  morning-,  as  plainly  as  I  see  you,  driving  in  a  hack 
past  the  Triton  fountain.  If  I  had  not  been  in  a  hurry 
to  reach  that  old  Jacobin  Ribalta,  in  time  to  save  the 
Montluc,  I  would  have  stojjped  him,  but  we  were  both 
going  too  fast." 

"You  are  sure  that  Gorka  is  at  Rome — Boleslas 
Gorka  ? "  persisted  Dorsenne. 

"  AVhat  is  there  surprising  in  that  ? "  said  Montfanon, 
who  continued  to  sneer.  "  It  is  natural  enough  that  he 
should  not  like  to  be  long  absent  from  a  city  where  he 
has  his  wife,  and  his  mistress  of  to-day,  yesterday,  or  to- 
morrow. I  suppose  your  Slav  and  your  Anglo-Saxon 
have  no  mere  prejudices,  and  make  a  partition  of  their 
Venetian  sensations  with  a  thoroughly  modern  dilet- 
tanteism.  That  would  be  indeed  cosmopolitan.  Well, 
well,  adieu  once  more.  Give  my  message  if  you  see 
him,  and  then,"  and  his  visage  again  expressed  an 
infantile  joy  at  the  trick  played  on  some  one  he  dis- 
liked, "  and  then,  do  not  fail  to  tell  Mdlle.  Hafner  that 
the  daughter  of  her  papa  shall  never,  never  have  that 
book — Blaise  de  Montluc,  sir,  M.  de  Montluc,  the  man  of 
Sienna  and  Rabastens."  Then  laughing  like  a  school- 
boy out  of  bonds,  he  pressed  the  book  more  closely 
under  his  arm,  repeating,  "  She  shall  not  have  it ;  do 
you  hear  ?  Tell  her  so  plainly.  She  shall  nev-er  have 
it." 


THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  DRAMA.  25 

n. 

THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  DRAMA. 

"  There  goes  an  honest  man  who  has  no  doubt  about 
his  ideas,"  was  Dorsenne's  reflection  as  the  Marquis  left 
him.  "  He  is  like  the  sincere  socialists  at  whom  I  am 
always  astonished.  What  use  are  his  tirades  to  me ;  but 
what  youthfulness  in  that  old,  worn-out  machine." 

His  eyes  followed  the  maimed  veteran  of  Patay,  as 
he  went  off  by  the  Via  della  Propaganda  for  nearly  a 
minute,  with  a  look  in  which  there  was  at  least  as  much 
envy  as  pity.  The  loss  of  the  arm  brought  out  strongly 
the  height  and  thinness  of  Montfanon's  figure  as  he 
walked,  holding  himself  erect,  with  the  rapid  gait  of 
enthusiasts  who  follow  their  ideas  instead  of  looking 
at  objects  before  them.  Still  the  care  with  which  he 
avoided  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  showed  the  instinct 
of  the  old  Roman,  who  knows  the  dangers  of  the  first 
beams  of  spring  in  that  blue  sky,  which  so  readily 
becomes  murderous.  For  a  moment  Montf  anon  stopped 
to  give  a  trifle  to  one  of  the  coatless  beggars  who  swarm 
about  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  an  action  all  the  more 
praiseworthy  as  with  his  one  arm  and  his  Book  of 
Hours  it  required  an  effort  to  search  his  pocket.  Dor- 
senne  was  well  enough  acquainted  with  this  original 
character  to  know  that  he  could  never  say  "  No  "  to  any 
one  who  asked  for  charity,  great  or  small.  Thanks  to 
this  practice,  the  enemy  of  the  fair  Fanny  Hafner  found 
himself  always  short  of  money,  although  his  life  was 
most  simple  and  his  income  forty  thousand  francs.  It 
will  be  seen  then  that  the  purchase  of  the  Montluc  relic 
proved  that  the  antipathy  he  had  conceived  against  the 
charming  daughter  of  the  Baron  had  become  a  kind  of 
passion.  Under  other  circumstances  the  novelist,  who 
revelled  in  remarking  such  things,  could  not  have  failed 
to  ponder  ironically  over  this  little  trait,  which  was 


36  COSMOPOLIS. 

easy  enough  to  explain,  for  Montfanon  had  more 
unreasoning  instinct  than  he  himself  suspected.  The 
old  Leaguer  would  not  have  been  logical  if  he  had  not 
possessed,  when  race  was  concerned,  the  impartiality 
of  an  inquisitor,  and  the  simple  suspicion  of  Jewish 
origin  had  already  rendered  him  unfavorably  disposed 
toward  Fanny.  Still,  he  was  a  just  man,  as  Dorsenne 
had  said,  and  if  the  girl  had  been  a  professed  Jewess, 
fervently  devoted  to  her  religion,  he  would  have  es- 
teemed her,  while  avoiding  her,  and  would  never  have 
spoken  so  bitterly.  The  true  motive  of  his  antipathy 
was  his  love  for  the  Cardinal  Guerillot,  into  which,  as 
into  all  things,  he  threw  passion  and  jealousy,  and  he 
could  not  pardon  Mdlle.  Hafner  for  having  made  her  way 
into  intimacy  with  this  saintly  prelate,  although  he, 
Montfanon  himself,  had  vainly  warned  the  late  Bishop 
of  Clermont  against  the  most  dangerous  of  intriguers,  as 
he  deemed  her.  She  had  in  vain,  for  months,  multiplied 
proofs  of  her  sincerity,  and  the  Cardinal  had  in  vain 
reported  them  to  the  terrible  Marquis ;  but  that  obstinate 
person  would  not  believe  in  it,  and  every  new  good 
action  of  his  enemy  increased  his  hatred  by  increasing 
the  uneasiness  caused  him,  in  spite  of  all,  by  a  vague 
feeling  of  injustice.  Dorsenne,  however,  had  not  walked 
far  in  the  direction  of  the  Castagna  Palace,  till  he  forgot 
both  Mdlle.  Hafner  and  the  Marquis's  prejudices,  and 
thought  only  of  one  of  the  remarks  uttered  by  Mont- 
fanon, namely,  that  respecting  the  return  of  Boleslas 
Gorka.  This  bit  of  news  must  have  been  quite  unex- 
pected, and  it  awakened  serious  reflections  in  the  novel- 
ist, for  he  did  not  even  glance  at  the  counter  of  the 
French  bookstore  at  the  corner  of  the  Corso,  to  see  if 
the  longed-for  important  "  Fourteenth  Thousand  "  was 
displayed  on  the  yellow  cover  of  his  last  volume,  his 
"  Eglogue  Mondaines,"  which  had  appeared  in  the  last 
autumn  with  a  success  that  his  six  months'  absence 
from  Paris,  far  from  all  friendly  cliques,  had  rather  im- 
paired.   Nor  did  he  think  of  noticing  whether  the  reg- 


THE   COMMKXCEMENT   OF  A   DRAMA.  27 

imen  lie  was  following,  in  imitation  of  Lord  Byron,  to 
reduce  his  embon^joinf,  liad  preserved  tlie  elegant  outline 
of  which,  in  his  fatuous  conceit  of  being  a  handsome 
man,  he  was  so  j)roud.  Yet  there  are  plenty  of  plate- 
glass  windows  in  the  shops  on  the  street  he  was  following 
on  his  way  from  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  to  the  Castag- 
na  Palace,  which  rears  its  dark  mass  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tiber,  at  the  end  of  the  Via  Giulia,  and  forms  a 
pendant  to  the  magnificent  Sacchetti  Palace,  the  master- 
piece of  Sangallo.  Nor  did  Dorsenne  amuse  himself 
in  his  accustomed  pleasure  of  noting  the  checkered 
tapestry  of  memories  that  a  walk  through  the  streets  of 
Rome  exhibits  to  every  man  of  education.  Yet  during 
the  twenty  minutes  that  it  took  him  to  reach  his  destina- 
tion he  passed  a  series  of  buildings,  in  which  he  might 
have  read  centuries  of  history.  First,  the  vast  Borghese 
Palace,  the  "  Borghese  Piano,"  as  it  was  nicknamed 
from  the  harpsichord  shape  adopted  by  the  architect,  a 
splendid  monument,  destined,  in  less  than  two  years,  to 
become  the  theatre  of  an  exhibition  more  lamentable  still 
than  that  of  the  Castagna  Palace,  and  of  a  ruin  not 
merited,  as  was  that  of  the  cosmopolitan  spendthrift  who 
had  been  the  Prince  of  Ardea.  Was  not  all  papal  Bome 
evoked  before  this  imposing  mass,  baptized  by  the 
name  of  the  pontiff  who  completed  St.  Peter's,  and  in- 
scribed on  the  facade,  alongside  the  Prince  of  the 
Apostles,  his  proud  Paulus  V.  BurgJieshis  Romanus. 
Dorsenne  did  not  bestow  a  glance  on  the  sumptuous 
edifice,  nor  did  he  notice,  ten  minutes'  later,  the  facade 
of  St.  Louis,  the  object  of  Montfanon's  reverence.  If 
the  novelist  did  not  profess  for  this  relic  of  old  France 
the  piety  of  the  Marquis,  he  never  failed  to  enter  there 
for  his  literary  devotions  at  the  tomb  of  Madame  de 
Beaumont,  at  that  Quia  non  sunt  of  the  epitaph  inscribed 
by  Chateaubriand  on  the  sepulchre  of  the  gentle  dead, 
with  more  vanity,  alas  !  than  tenderness.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  did  not  think  of  it ;  he  forgot  to 
gladden  his  eyes  at  the  rococo  fountain  of  the  Piazza 


28  COSMOPOLIS. 

Navona  where  Domitian  placed  his  circus,  and  which 
recalls  the  cruel  annals  of  Imperial  Rome,  just  as,  two 
steps  away,  the  broken  statue  at  the  comer  of  the 
Braschi  Palace,  the  Menelaus  which,  by  the  irony  of  fate, 
has  become  the  Pasquin  of  the  Pasquinades,  recalls  the 
moral  conquest  of  Rome  by  Hellenic  artists.  A^ain 
two  steps,  and  the  great  artery  of  the  Corso  Vittorio- 
Emmanuele  displays  the  struggling  renaissance  of  Rome 
as  she  is  to-day.  Again  two  steps,  the  mass  of  the 
Farnese  Palace  recalls  all  the  grandeur  of  modem  art 
and  the  tragedy  of  contemporary  monarchies.  Is  not  the 
thought  of  Michael  Angelo  still  impressed  on  the  dark 
travertine  of  this  immense  sarcophagus  which  was  the 
refuge  of  the  last  King  of  Naples  ?  But  the  soul 
must  be  entirely  free,  to  deliver  itself  to  that  charm 
of  historic  dilettanteism  which  emanates  from  cities  built 
up  of  their  past,  and  although  Julien  piqued  himself,  not 
without  reason,  with  possessing  an  intellect  superior  to 
emotion,  although  he  admired  above  all  the  saying  of 
the  man  who  asserted  he  had  never  felt  an  annoyance 
that  an  hour's  reading  could  not  soothe,  he  had  not  his 
usual  freedom  of  thought  during  his  walk  toward  this 
bit  of  "  human  mosaic,"  as  he  picturesquely  described 
it,  but  turned  over  and  over  the  following  questions  : 

"Boleslas  Gorka  back !  Why,  it  is  only  two  days  since 
I  saw  his  wife,  who  did  not  expect  him  for  a  month. 
Montfanon  is  not  a  dreamer.  Boleslas  Gorka  back !  At 
the  very  moment  when  Mme.  Steno  is  just  crazy  over  Mait- 
land :  for  she  is  crazy  over  him.  The  day  before  yester- 
day she  looked  at  him  during  dinner,  at  her  own  house, 
in  a  scandalous  manner.  Gorka  must  have  seen  what 
was  coming  this  winter.  When  the  American  offered 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Alba,  the  Pole  stopped  it.  It  is 
good  to  hear  Montfanon  when  he  talks  of  partition  be- 
tween these  two  men.  When  Boleslas  set  out  for  War- 
saw, the  Countess  and  Maitland  scarcely  knew  each 
other;  and  now — !  If  he  has  come  back,  he  must 
have  heard  of  his  successor.    Some  one  must  have  told 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DKAMA.  29 

him ;  an  enemy  of  the  Countess,  a  friend  of  Maitland — 
for  our  dear  little  comrades  do  commit  these  infamies  at 
times.  If  Gorka,  who  shoots  like  Casal,  kills  Maitland 
in  a  duel,  there  will  be  so  many  sham  Velasquez'  the 
less,  and  I  shall  care  no  more  than  for  my  first  scrawl. 
If  he  punishes  his  mistress  for  this  treachery,  again,  it 
is  all  the  same  to  me,  for  Catharine  Steno  is  a  pretty 
considerable  jade.  But  my  little  friend,  my  poor  charm- 
ing Alba,  what  will  become  of  her  if  there  is  a  scandal — 
if  there  is  bloodshed  over  her  mother's  follies?  Poor 
child,  who  already  suspects  and  has  suffered  so !  Gorka 
back !  He  has  not  hinted  at  it  in  his  letters  to  me,  al- 
though I  have  received  many  from  him  since  his  depart- 
ure, and  although  last  autumn  he  made  me  the  confidant 
of  his  jealousy,  under  the  pretext  that  I  understood 
women,  and  with  the  pretty  vanity  of  giving  me  some 
inspiration  for  a  romance.  This  silence  about  his  re- 
turn looks  more  like  a  drama  than  a  romance,  and  with  a 
Slav,  as  Slav  as  this  man  is,  one  may  expect  anything. 
I'll  soon  learn,  however,  how  things  stand,  for  he  will 
be  at  the  Castagna  Palace.  He  would  be  bound  to  ac- 
company his  wife  to  see  his  old  mistress  a  day  sooner. 
Old  mistress  1  No !  This  affair  is  not  in  good  shape. 
I  would  prefer  him  on  the  Vistula,  decidedly.  It  would 
be  more  reassuring.     Poor  charming  Alba !  " 

This  little  soliloquy  was  very  much  what  would  have 
been  made  in  similar  circumstances  by  any  young  man 
that  was  interested  in  a  girl  whose  mother's  conduct  was 
not  altogether  proper.  It  is  a  lamentable,  but  not  un- 
common, situation,  and  there  was  no  need  of  the  novel- 
ist coming  to  study  it  at  Eome,  for  a  whole  winter 
and  spring,  to  the  damage  of  his  literary  ambition.  If 
his  interest  was  deeper  than  that  of  a  student,  Dorsenne 
possessed  a  very  simple  method  of  saving  his  "  little 
friend,"  as  he  called  her,  from  any  trouble  from  the  pro- 
ceedings of  a  mother  whom  age  could  not  render  discreet. 
Why  did  he  not  ask  for  her  hand?  He  had  a  good 
patrimony  which  his  success  as  an  author  augmented. 


30  OOSMOPOLIS. 

For,  after  the  first  book,  which  established  his  reputa- 
tion—his "  ilfitudes  des  Femmes,"  published  in  1879 — not 
a  single  one  of  his  fifteen  novels  or  collections  of  tales 
had  not  been  appreciated.  His  personal  celebrity  could, 
strictly  speaking-,  boast  of  a  family  celebrity,  for  his 
grandfather  was  the  second  cousin  of  the  brave  General 
Dorsenne,  for  whom  Napoleon  could  pick  no  successor 
as  head  of  the  Guard  but  Friant.  There  it  is  all  in  one 
word.  Although  the  heirs  of  the  hero  of  the  empire 
would  never  have  recognized  this  cousinship,  Julien  be- 
lieved in  it,  and  he  spoke  in  perfect  sincerity  when,  in 
reply  to  compliments  on  his  books,  he  said:  "At  my 
age  my  grand-uncle,  the  Colonel  of  the  Guard,  had  done 
something  far  better."  This  doubtful  claim  was  not 
even  necessary,  for,  in  the  station  he  occupied,  the 
Countess  Steno,  who  had  rather  lost  caste  through  her 
gallantries,  would  have  taken  him  as  a  son-in-law.  As  to 
inspiring  love  in  the  girl,  his  intelligent  and  refined  face, 
his  graceful  figure,  which  he  retained  in  spite  of  his 
thirty-five  years,  left  no  doubt  on  that  score.  Yet  noth- 
ing was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  such  an  idea,  for 
as  he  climbed  the  steps  of  the  palace  once  inhabited  by 
Urban  VII.  he  continued,  in  quite  diflferent  terms,  the 
monologue  he  had  said  to  himself  on  his  way  thither, 
that  kind  of  involuntary  "  copy  "  which  is  written  in  the 
brain  of  a  literary  man  when  he  loves  literature  too 
much.  It  took  the  form  almost  of  "  edited  copy,"  the 
most  marked  of  professional  sins,  the  most  incompre- 
hensible, too,  to  the  inexperienced,  who  think  at  hazard, 
and  who,  happily  for  themselves,  never  undergo  the 
slavery  of  too  precise  a  phrase,  or  too  conscious  au  idea. 
"  Yes,  poor  charming  Alba,"  he  repeated ;  "  what  a 
pity  that  her  marriage  with  the  brother  of  the  Countess 
Gorka  was  not  arranged  four  months  ago  !  It  was  not 
the  height  of  propriety  to  form  a  connection  in  the  fam- 
ily of  the  wife  of  her  mother's  lover.  But  she  would 
have  been  less  likely  to  know  anything,  and  the  conve- 
nient combination  by  which  her  mother  had  made  her  a 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  31 

friend  of  the  other  woman,  to  blind  the  eyes  of  both, 
might  have  had  a  good  result.  Alba  would  have  been 
Lady  Ardrahan  to-day — and  absorbed  into  that  strong, 
English  life  which  restores  the  moral  tone  as  the  moun- 
tains restore  the  blood,  instead  of  marrying  some  imbe- 
cile here  or  elsewhere.  Then  she  would  deceive  him,  as 
her  mother  deceived  Steno,  of  happy  memory,  with  me 
perhaps,  in  remembrance  of  our  charming  and  pure 
friendship  of  to-day — which  would  be  too  melancholy. 
Well,  let  us  not  think  about  it.  .  We  do  not  know 
whether  the  future  exists,  while  the  present  does  exist 
and  has  its  rights.  The  present  means  that  I  owe  to  the 
Contessina  my  finest  sensations  in  Rome,  this  view  of 
her  youth — not  too  happy — in  the  scenery  of  such  a 
grand  past.  There  is  another  sensation  to  be  enjoyed : 
to  visit  this  palace,  for  sale  by  auction,  with  this  lovely 
girl,  over  whom  hangs  this  threatening  drama.  What 
does  logic  say,  as  my  friend  Beyle  would  have  said  ? 
To  be  glad  that  the  Countess  Steno  is  a  woman  of  gal- 
lantry, otherwise  the  house  would  not  have  its  present 
tone,  and  I  should  never  have  been  a  familiar  friend  of 
the  little  girl.  To  be  glad  that  Ardea  is  a  spendthrift 
and  a  fool,  that  he  has  lost  his  fortune  on  the  Bourse, 
and  that  the  syndicate  of  his  creditors,  presided  over  by 
Ancona,  has  laid  hands  on  his  palace,  for  otherwise  I 
would  never  have  been  ascending  the  steps  of  these 
papal  stairs,  nor  looking  at  these  fragments  of  Greek 
sarcophagi  built  into  the  walls,  and  this  garden  with 
its  intense  green.  Gorka  might  come  back  for  lots  of 
reasons  besides  jealousy,  and  Montfanon  is  right,  Cath- 
erine is  smart  enough  to  keep  them  both,  the  painter 
and  him,  on  a  string.  She  will  make  Maitland  believe 
that  she  receives  Gorka  on  account  of  Madame  Gorka, 
and  to  prevent  him  from  ruining  that  excellent  woman 
by  his  gambling.  She  will  tell  Boleslas  that  there  is 
nothing  between  her  and  Maitland  but  platonic  discus- 
sions on  the  relative  merits  of  Raphael  and  Perugino, 
And  I  should  be  a  greater  dupe  than  these  two  dupes 


32  COSMOPOLIS. 

if  I  lost  this  visit.  It  is  not  every  day  that  one  can  see 
the  great-grandnephew  of  a  pope  sold  up  like  a  com- 
mon Bohemian." 

This  second  series  of  reflections  resembled  much 
nearer  than  did  the  first  series  the  real  Dorsenne,  and 
the  kind  of  logical  dilettanteism  which  he  professed — 
that  which  he  had  confessed  to  Montfanon  in  the  attenu- 
ated form  that  rendered  it  often  inexplicable  to  his  best 
friends.  This  j^oung  man,  with  large,  black,  well-opened 
eyes,  a  face  with  delicate  outlines,  the  olive  tint  of  a 
Spanish  ascetic,  had  never  had  but  one  passion.  This 
was  so  exceptional  as  to  throw  the  ordinary  observer  off 
the  track,  and  took  such  a  singular  development  that  it 
would  in  time  assume,  for  kindly  eyes,  the  symptoms  of 
an  almost  offensive  disposition,  or  even  those  of  a  re- 
volting egotism,  and  profound  corruption.  Dorsenne 
said,  with  truth,  he  loved  to  comprehend,  for  the  sake 
of  comprehending,  as  the  gambler  loves  to  gamble,  the 
miser  to  heap  up  money,  the  ambitious  man  to  gain 
office.  He  possessed  this  appetite,  this  taste,  this  craze 
rather,  for  ideas  which  makes  the  philosopher  and  the 
savant.  But  he  was  a  philosopher,  blended  by  a  ca- 
price of  nature  with  an  artist,  and  by  a  caprice  of  for- 
tune and  education  with  the  man  of  the  world  and  the 
traveller.  Abstract  speculations  in  metaphysics  would 
not  satisfy  him  any  more  than  the  continuous  simple 
creativeness  of  a  story-teller,  who  tells  his  stories  to 
amuse  himself  by  their  brightness,  or  than  the  half-ani- 
mal ardor  of  the  man  of  pleasure  who  abandons  himself 
to  the  madness  of  vice.  He  had  invented,  partly  by  in- 
stinct, partly  by  design,  a  compromise  between  these 
contradictory  tendencies,  which  he  formulated  rather 
pedantically,  by  saying  that  his "  only  aim  was  "  to  in- 
tellectualize  vivid  sensations."  In  clearer  terms,  he 
dreamed  of  securing  from  human  life  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  impressions  that  it  could  give,  and  to  ponder 
them  when  they  were  received.  He  believed,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  that  he  could  discover  in  the  two  writers, 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  33 

whom  he  admired  most,  Goethe  and  Stendhal,  a  con- 
tinual application  of  a  similar  principle.  His  constant 
study,  then,  had  been,  during  the  fourteen  years  since 
he  began  to  write,  how  to  pass  through  as  many  differ- 
ing conditions  of  society  as  possible.  He  passed  through 
them,  was  in  them  but  not  of  them,  with  the  ever-present 
idea  in  the  background  that  elsewhere  there  were  other 
manners  to  learn,  other  characters  to  examine,  other  per- 
sonages to  clothe,  other  sensations  to  vibrate  with.  The 
instant  of  a  change  to  some  newer  life  was  marked  by 
the  completion  of  each  of  his  books,  as  he  held  that  a 
sentimental  or  social  experience,  when  once  written 
down  or  translated,  was  not  worth  the  trouble  of  pro- 
longing. Hence  the  incoherence  of  his  habits,  and  the 
contrasts  of  atmosphere,  if  one  dare  say  so,  which 
stamp  his  work.  Take  at  hazard  his  first  collection  of 
tales,  the  "  Etudes  des  Femmes,"  that  made  him  known. 
They  are  about  a  sentimental  youth  who  loved  not 
wisely,  and  wasted  hour  after  hour  in  taking  seriously, 
in  an  excess  of  romanticism,  the  members  of  the  avowed 
or  disguised  demi-monde.  Next  to  that  book  his 
"  Sans  Dieu,"  a  drama  of  scientific  conscientiousness, 
attested  diligent  study  in  the  Museum,  the  Sorbonne, 
the  College  of  France;  while  "Monsieur  le  Premier" 
remains  one  of  the  most  faithful  pictures  of  the  con- 
temporary political  world,  which  could  not  have  been 
traced  except  by  one  acquainted  with  the  Palais  Bour- 
bon and  newspaper  offices.  Was  it  not  reported,  one 
fine  morning,  that  Dorsenne  was  a  candidate  for  the 
House  of  Deputies — in  which  candidature  he  failed 
moreover  —  for  the  sake  of  advertising  himself,  said 
his  enemies,  out  of  caprice,  said  his  friends,  while 
really  he  only  sought  to  experience  the  peculiar  sensa- 
tion of  a  man  in  political  life "?  Then  his  two  volumes 
of  travel,  pretentiously  named  "  Tourisme,"  *'  Profils 
d'fitrangeres,"  and  "  Eglogue  Mondaine,"  where  he  flits 
between  Florence  and  London,  Saint  Moritz  and  Bay- 
reuth,  reveal  long  sojourns  out  of  France,  a  keen  an- 


34  0OSMOPOLI8. 

alysis  of  Italian,  Englisli,  and  German  life,  a  superfi- 
cial but  exact  knowledge  of  languages,  histories,  and 
literatures  which  are  scarcely  in  accordance  with  Vodor 
di  femina,  which  scents  all  his  pages.  Their  contrasts 
suppose  a  strangely  complex  mind  dominated  by  a 
pretty  firm  will,  and,  it  must  be  added,  very  little  sensi- 
bility. This  may  seem  inconsistent  with  the  extreme, 
almost  morbid,  delicacy  of  certain  of  Dorsenne's  works. 
Still  it  is  true.  He  had  little  heart.  But  in  return,  he 
had  plenty  of  nerves,  and  if  the  heart  is  necessary  to 
feel  truly,  down  to  that  complete  abnegation  of  self 
which  recoils  not  even  before  death,  nerves  and  their 
painful  irritability  are  enough  for  one  who  wishes  to 
paint  human  passions,  love  above  all,  with  their  joys 
and  sorrows  of  which  one  does  not  speak  when  one  feels 
to  a  certain  degree,  Julien's  glory  had  never  been 
more  than  half  glory,  yet  his  success  had  come  so  soon 
that  it  gave  opportunity  for  some  adventures.  He  had 
the  credit  of  having  had  more,  on  account  of  his  profes- 
sion of  a  keen  enjoyment  of  feminine  conversation. 
Whatever  society  he  had  traversed  in  his  sentimental 
pilgrimage,  he  always  sought  to  find  in  it  some  woman 
whose  charms  would  sum  up  the  scattered  charms  of 
that  society.  His  countless  acquaintances  had  been 
mere  light  sketches.  Some  had  been  openly  gallant ; 
most  of  them  had  remained  platonic  ;  some  had  been 
simply  playing  at  friendship,  as  was  the  case  now  with 
Mme.  Steno.  Every  woman,  mistress,  or  friend  was  for 
him,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  nothing  but  a  curiosity  to  be 
satisfied,  and  in  the  tenth  case,  a  pleasure  to  be  en- 
joyed, a  perfume  to  inhale,  a  model  to  paint.  But  as 
he  unceasingly  labored  to  make  his  model  unrecogniz- 
able by  an  external  sign,  he  never  thought  he  was  to 
blame,  if  he  used  his  position  as  a  recognized  author, 
for  what  he  called  his  "culture."  He  never  imagined 
what  depravity  there  was  in  this  mental  epicureanism, 
based  on  a  constant  abuse  of  his  own  soul,  and  that 
of  others.     He  was  capable  of  justice  ;  his  defence  of 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  35 

Fanny  Hafner  to  Montfanon  proved  that ;  of  admiration, 
his  respect  for  the  nobles  quoted  by  Montfanon  was  evi- 
dence of  that ;  of  pity,  for  otherwise  he  would  never  have 
felt  at  once  with  such  sympathy  the  disastrous  efiect  of 
Gorka's  return  on  the  fate  of  the  innocent  Alba  Steno. 
The  sudden  ri^ht-about-face  that  his  thoughts  had 
made  as  he  entered  the  vast  stairway  of  the  Castagna 
Palace,  would  have  been  made  by  him  in  all  similar  cir- 
cumstances. Excess  of  reflection  ever  came  to  corrupt 
or  dissolve  his  natural  sensibility ;  and  thus,  after  being- 
really  upset  by  the  unexpected  news  of  the  return  of 
the  lover  whom  Mme.  Steno  was  deceiving,  to  such  an 
extent  as  to  have  an  unquiet  quarter  of  an  hour  while 
he  ran  through  all  the  dangers  this  return  might  have 
for  Alba,  he  got  himself  well  in  hand  again,  before  even 
seeing  her.  In  place  of  hastening,  as  was  natural,  to 
know  how  matters  stood,  he  paused  at  a  window  and 
scribbled  on  a  tiny  note-book,  in  a  firm,  precise,  clear 
handwriting  characteristic  of  his  style,  this  little  note, 
which  is  far  from  sentimental : 

"  25  April,  '90.  Castagna  Palace.  Wonderful  winding 
stair,  built  by  Balthazar  Perazzi,  so  long  and  so  loide,  loith 
double  colonettes  every  ten  steps,  like  that  of  Santa  Colomba, 
near  Sienna.  Enjoyed  the  vieio  .of  the  garden  tvithin,  so 
shut  up,  fenced  in,  and  designed  that  the  red  clumps  of 
fivers,  the  dry  regularity  of  the  evergreens,  the  straight 
lines  of  the  sanded  and  gravelled  ivalks  look  like  so  many 
lines  in  a  face. — Latin  garden,  opposed  to  German  or  Anglo- 
Saxon  garden,  tJie  latter  regarding  the  indeterminate  in 
nature,  the  other  all  in  order,  all  by  rule,  humanizing  and 
o^-ganizing  dcnvn  to  the  flmver -beds.  To  render  tJie  complexity 
of  life  submissive  to  a  thou^jht  of  unity  and  clearness, — a 
constant  mark  of  the  Latin  genius,  for  a  clump  of  trees,  as 
for  a  whole  people,  for  a  whole  religion — Catholicism — con- 
trary in  the  Northern  races.  Profound  thought  in  tlie  ivords. 
Forests  taught  w^en  freedom." 


36*  COSMOPOLIS. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  writing  these  notes  and  was 
closing-  his  pocket-book,  which  he  called  sometimes  his 
pantry,  sometimes  his  spittoon,  when  the  sound  of  a 
voice  he  well  knew  made  him  turn  suddenly.  He  had 
not  heard  this  person  ascending-  the  stairs,  and  the  lat- 
ter had  let  him  write  on.  He  was  no  other  than  one  of 
the  actors  in  his  troupe,  to  use  Dorsenne's  words — one 
of  the  persons  with  whom  they  had  arranged,  the  evening 
before  at  Mme.  Steno's,  this  morning's  party — which  the 
redoubtable  Marquis  had  denounced  with  such  warmth. 
It  was  the  father  of  the  fair  Fanny  Hafner,  the  Baron 
Justus  himself.  The  old  buccaneer  of  the  bourses  at 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  the  too  famous  foimder  of  the  Ausiro- 
Dalmatian  Credit,  was  a  little,  very  thin  man,  with  blue 
eyes  of  almost  insufferable  keenness,  a  face  of  a  neutral 
tint,  and  an  expressionless  countenance.  His  attitude, 
always  equally  courteous,  his  dress  always  equally 
simple  and  careful,  his  language  always  equally  sober 
and  restrained,  gave  him  that  kind  of  quiet  distinction 
which  is  the  leading  characteristic  of  so  many  old  dip- 
lomatists. But  the  dangerous  adventurer  was  betrayed 
by  the  glance  which  Hafner  could  not  cover  with  a  veil 
of  amiable  indifference.  Man  of  the  world,  as  he 
piqued  himself  on  being,  he  revealed,  in  spite  of  all,  by 
indefinable  nothings,  and  by  his  eye  with  its  restless- 
ness so  singular  in  a  man  so  rich,  an  obscure,  enigmatic 
past  of  obscure  and  varied  struggles,  savage  greed,  cool 
calculation  and  indomitable  energy.  The  fanatic  Mout- 
fanon,  who  was  so  mistaken  and  unjust  about  the 
daughter,  was  right  about  the  father,  or  almost  right,  for 
there  are  more  shades  and  less  definiteness,  even  in  such 
a  perfect  type  of  the  international  speculator  as  this 
character,  about  religion,  family  or  country.  Son  of  a 
Berlin  Jew  and  a  Dutch  Protestant,  Justus  Hafner  was 
registered  as  belonging  to  his  mother's  religion.  But  he 
lost  her  in  early  life  and  was  brought  up  in  no  other  faith 
than  that  of  money.  His  father,  a  jeweller  in  a  small 
way,  very  persevering  and  skilful,  but  too  prudent  to  risk 


THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  DRAMA.  37 

or  gain  much,  taught  him  the  trade  in  precious  stones, 
to  which  he  soon  added  laces,  pictures,  old  stuffs,  tapes- 
tries, and  old  furniture.  An  unerring  perception,  and 
bull-dog  German  patience,  crossed  with  Jew  and  Dutch, 
soon  had  won  for  him  his  first  capital,  which  the  property 
he  inherited  from  his  father  augmented.  At  twenty- 
seven,  Justus  was  worth  not  less  than  five  hundred  thou- 
sand marks.  Two  unfortunate  operations  on  the  Bourse 
which  he  had  undertaken  to  force  fortune  and  reach  the 
million  point,  stripped  the  too  bold  broker,  who  recom- 
menced to  build  up  a  new  fortune  by  again  peddling  dia- 
monds and  trinkets.  He  came  to  Paris,  and  there  in  a 
little  room  in  the  Rue  Montmartre,  he  made,  in  three 
years,  his  second  capital.  He  managed  it  this  time  so 
skilfully  that  in  1870,  at  the  epoch  of  the  war,  he  had 
recovered  all  his  losses.  The  armistice  found  him  in 
England,  where  he  had  married  the  daughter  of  the  agent 
for  a  Vienna  house  who  had  come  to  London  to  or- 
ganize a  vast  scheme  for  revictualling  the  belligerent 
armies.  The  enormous  profits  made  by  the  father-in- 
law  and  son-in-law  during  this  year,  made  them  resolve 
to  found  a  bank  with  its  head  office  in  Vienna,  and  a 
branch  in  Berlin.  Justus  Hafner,  an  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  M.  de  Bismarck,  had  also  the  commanding 
interest  in  a  great  newspaper.  But  the  great  statesman 
refused  to  aid  the  late  jobber  of  diamonds  in  the  politi- 
cal ambitions  that  he  had  cherished  from  youth.  It  was 
a  cruel  shock,  although  only  a  moral  one,  in  the  life  of 
this  hardworking  man,  who,  having  made  up  his  mind 
as  to  his  future  in  Prussia,  emigrated  definitively  to 
Vienna.  The  creation  of  the  Credit  Amtro- Dodmaie, 
placed  in  the  market  with  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
skilful  puffing,  enabled  him  to  realize,  at  length,  one  at 
least  of  his  chimeras.  His  fortune,  without  equalling 
that  of  the  great  financiers  of  the  epoch,  increased  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  phantasmagoria  till  it  reached  a  figure 
high  enough  in  1879  to  permit  him  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
five  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  income.    Contrary 


38  0OSMOPOLI8. 

to  the  habits  of  most  of  the  speculators  of  this  sort,  Haf- 
ner  realized  in  time  and  placed  his  prodigious  capital 
in  good  securities.  He  thought  himself  safe  when  the 
thunder-clap  of  the  trial  of  1880  almost  destroyed  for 
ever  the  edifice  so  painfully  constructed.  The  Credit 
A  ustro-Dalmate  foundered  in  a  noisy  manner  among  in- 
numerable disasters,  public  and  private,  and  such  scan- 
dals as  the  suicide  of  the  Schroeder  family.  A  whole 
band  of  founders — among  them  Justus  Hafner,  were  pros- 
ecuted ;  he  was  acquitted,  but  with  such  imputations  on 
his  financial  morality  and  in  the  midst  of  such  public 
indignation  that  he  left  Austria  for  Italy,  and  Vienna 
for  Rome.  There,  without  heeding  his  previous  rebuff, 
he  set  to  work  to  realize  what  had  been  the  third  great 
object  of  his  life,  a  position  in  society.  The  age  of 
amassing  had  been  succeeded,  as  is  the  case  with  these 
great  managers  of  money,  by  the  age  of  vanity.  After 
the  death  of  his  wife,  he  planned  the  marriage  of  his 
daughter  with  a  force  of  will  and  a  complication  of  com- 
binations equal  to  any  of  his  exploits  of  old,  and  this 
"  struggle  for  high  life  "  was  disguised  under  the  form, 
systematically  adopted,  of  lofty  politeness  and  noble 
bearing.  How  had  he  found  the  means,  amid  so  many 
bitter  struggles,  to  get  such  a  degree  of  refinement 
that  the  primitive  old-clothes  man  and  the  sneaking 
share-broker  were  not  too  conspicuous  in  the  Baron 
of  forty-four,  decorated  with  several  orders,  installed 
in  a  magnificent  palace,  the  father  of  a  charming  daugh- 
ter, and  himself  a  pleasant  talker,  a  courteous  cavalier, 
a  distinguished  sportsman  ?  This  is  the  secret  of  natures 
formed  for  social  conquest,  as  Napoleon  for  war,  and 
Talleyrand  for  diplomacy.  Dorsenne  was  always  put- 
ting this  question  to  himself,  and  never  could  answer  it. 
Although  he  boasted  of  looking  on  the  Baron  with  a 
mere  intellectual  curiosity,  he  could  not,  with  it  all,  get 
rid  of  a  shudder  of  antipathy  as  he  met  the  eyes  of  this 
terrible  man.  Even  this  morning,  in  this  turn  of  the 
stairs,  it  was  very  disagreeable  to  know  that  those  eyes 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  39 

had  watched  him  making-  his  innocent  notes,  although 
there  was  a  trace  of  playful  irony — that  of  a  grand  sei- 
gneur who  is  the  patron  of  a  great  artist — in  the  manner 
of  Hafner,  as  he  addressed  him. 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself  for  me,"  he  said.  "  You 
paint  from  nature,  and  you  are  quite  right.  I  seo  your 
next  work  will  be  based  on  the  ruin  of  our  poor  Prince 
d'Ardea.    Don't  be  too  hard  on  him  or  on  us ! " 

The  novelist  could  not  refrain  from  blushing  at  this 
kindly  bit  of  pleasantry.  Nothing  could  have  affected 
him  more  painfully,  because  he  knew  the  remark  was,  at 
the  same  time,  very  just  and  very  unjust.  How  could 
he  explain  the  kind  of  literary  alchemy,  thanks  to  which 
he  could  assert  that  he  never  made  portraits,  although 
every  line  of  his  fifteen  volumes  had  been  taken  from  a 
living  model  ?  Hence  he  exhibited  some  bad  temper  in 
his  reply : 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  Baron,  I  do  not  take 
notes  about  anybody,  and  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  writ- 
ing books  with  a  key " 

"All  authors  say  that,"  replied  the  Baron,  as  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  good  nature  he  rarely 
lost,  "  and  they  are  right.  In  any  case,  it  is  very  lucky 
that  you  had  to  make  your  notes,  for  we  shall  both  be 
too  late.  It  is  nearly  a  quarter-past  eleven,  and  we  were 
due  at  eleven  sharp.  But  I  have  a  good  excuse.  I 
waited  for  my  daughter." 

"  Is  she  not  coming  ? "  asked  Dorsenne. 

"No,"  Hafner  answered,  "At  the  last  moment  she 
could  not  make  up  her  mind.  She  was  annoyed  a  little 
this  morning  about  some  old  book  she  wished  to  buy. 
Some  smart  fellow  who  had  learned  that  she  wanted  it 
got  ahead  of  her.  She  will  have  to  pay  twenty  louis 
more  for  her  fancy.  But  this  is  not  the  real  cause.  The 
real  cause  is  that  she  is  too  sensitive,  and  finds  the  sale 
of  all  the  furniture  of  this  old  family  a  very  sad  business. 
So  I  did  not  insist.  How  would  she  have  felt  if  she  had 
known  the  late  Princess  Nicoletta,  Peppino's  mother? 


40  COSMOPOLIS. 

When  I  paid  my  first  visit  to  Rome,  in  75,  you  should 
have  seen  this  salon,  and  what  a  princess  she  was !  She 
was  a  Condolmieri,  of  the  family  of  Eugenius  IV.,  a  pope 
of  the  purest  fifteenth  century  type." 

"  How  stupid  vanity  can  make  the  cleverest  of  men ! " 
thought  Julien,  as  he  followed  the  Baron.  "  He  wants 
me  to  believe  that  he  was  received  by  this  lady,  who  was 
of  the  creme  de  la  cixme,  and  the  most  select  in  invita- 
tions to  her  salon.  How  much  more  complex  life  is  than 
it  seems  to  Montfanon !  This  girl  feels  by  instinct  what 
the  Chouan  Marquis  feels  by  knowledge,  the  melan- 
choly of  such  ends  of  noble  families ;  while  her  father 
lets  the  old  bric-k-brac  dealer's  ears  still  peep  out,  and 
talks  of  mediaeval  popes  as  if  they  were  bibelots.  The 
'  purest  fifteenth  century ! '  While  we  are  alone,  I  will 
ask  the  old  fox  what  he  knows  about  Gorka's  return. 
He  is  Mme.  Steno's  confidant  and  must  be  posted  about 
the  Pole's  comings  and  goings."  Hafuer  was  the  Count- 
ess's financial  adviser,  and  this  very  friendship  between 
them  ought  to  have  been  a  reason  why  Dorsenne  should 
at  any  price  have  avoided  such  a  subject,  all  the  more 
as  he  knew  the  Baron  disliked  him.  The  Baron  could, 
by  repeating  a  rash  word,  ruin  him  with  the  mother 
of  Alba.  But  the  novelist,  like  most  professional  ob- 
servers, could  only  analyze  retrospectively.  His  pene- 
trating intelligence  never  aided  him  in  avoiding  one  of 
those  little  indiscretions  of  speech,  wliich  are  great  in- 
discretions of  conduct  on  the  tricky  chess-board  of  the 
world.  Luckily  for  him,  he  had  no  ambitions  but 
pleasure  and  art,  and  without  them  he  had  found  means 
of  making  for  himself  enemies  enough  to  spoil  his 
chances  for  any  academy  or  any  decoration.  He  selected 
the  moment  when  the  Baron  was  rather  out  of  breath 
by  ascending  the  flight  of  stairs,  and  the  auctioneer's 
assistant  was  examining  their  tickets  of  admission,  to 
say  to  his  companion : 

*'  Have  you  seen  Gorka  since  his  amval  ? " 

"  What !   Boleslas  here  ? "  asked  Justus  Hafner,  who 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  41 

gave  no  other  sign  of  astonishment,  except  by  adding 
"  I  thought  he  was  in  Poland." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  myself,"  said  Dorsenne,  who 
then  regretted  having  spoken  so  hastily.  It  is  not 
always  wise  to  be  the  first  to  convey  certain  bits  of 
news.  But  the  ignorance  of  the  Baron,  the  best  friend 
of  the  Countess,  who  saw  her  nearly  every  day,  struck  the 
young  man  with  such  surprise  that  he  could  not  refrain 
from  adding,  "  A  friend  whose  word  I  cannot  doubt  met 
him  this  morning ;  "  and  then,  abruptly,  "  Does  not  this 
sudden  return  alarm  you  ?  " 

"  Alarm  !  "  replied  Hafner.  "  Why  ?  "  and  he  looked 
at  the  novelist,  as  he  uttered  the  words,  with  his  usual 
impassive  countenance,  which  however  was  contradicted 
by  a  little,  very  little  sign,  very  significant  to  those  who 
knew  him.  The  two  men,  during  this  exchange  of 
words,  had  entered  the  first  room,  in  which  were  dis- 
played "  objects  of  art  belonging  to  the  apartments  of 
H.  E.  the  Prince  of  Ardea,"  so  the  catalogue  said,  and 
the  Baron  had  not  touched  the  gold  eyeglass  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  placing  on  his  nose  before  the 
meanest  display  of  bric-a-brac.  As  he  walked  with 
slow,  carefully  measured  steps  through  the  busts  and 
statues  in  this  first  "  Room  of  Marbles,"  as  it  was  called 
in  the  catalogue,  and  never  turned  his  keen  dealer's 
glance  on  the  Gobelin  tapestry  on  the  walls,  he  must 
have  considered  the  novelist's  communication  as  very 
important.     The  latter  had  said  too  much  to  stop  now. 

"  Well,  although  I  have  not  been,  like  you,  a  friend 
of  Mme.  Steno's  for  years,  I  felt  a  shiver  when  I  heard 
of  his  return.  She  does  not  know  what  Gorka  is  when 
he  is  jealous,  and  what  he  is  capable  of " 

"  Jealous  ?  And  about  whom  ?  "  Hafner  broke  in. 
"  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  heard  Boleslas's 
name  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  Countess.  I 
confess  I  never  took  these  whispers  seriously,  and  I 
could  not  have  believed  that  you,  a  visitor  at  her  house 
and  one  of  her  friends,  would  have  hesitated  about 


42  cosMoroLis. 

them.  Set  your  mind  at  ease.  Gorka  loves  liis  charm- 
ing wife,  and  he  could  not  choose  better.  The  Countess 
Caterina  is  an  excellent  woman,  very  Italian,  very 
demonstrative.  She  is  interested  in  him,  as  she  is  in 
you,  in  Maitland,  in  me,  through  her  expansive  nature ; 
in  you  because  you  write  such  charming  books,  in 
Boleslas  on  account  of  his  grief  at  losing  his  first  child, 
in  me  because  I  have  the  delicate  charge  of  bringing  up 
a  daughter.  She  is  more  than  an  excellent  person,  she 
is  a  superior  woman,  very  superior." 

He  uttered  this  hypocritical  discourse  with  such  com- 
plete tranquillity  that  Dorsenne  was  stunned,  as  well  as 
irritated.  That  Hafner  did  not  believe  a  word  of  what 
he  said,  the  novelist  knew  quite  well,  as  he  had  learned 
from  the  indiscreet  confidences  of  Gorka  what  to  think 
of  the  manners  of  the  Venetian  countess,  and  he  knew 
how  keen  were  the  Baron's  eyes.  At  any  other  time  he 
would  have  admired  the  adroitness  of  the  old  stager, 
who  was  so  wide-awake  and  circumspect  as  to  dread 
even  to  hear  what  he  was  more  sure  of  than  anyone  else. 
At  this  instant  the  writer  deemed  this  show  of  reserve 
somewhat  puerile,  because  it  left  him  to  play  the  part, 
common  enough  but  not  very  nice,  of  being  a  slanderer 
who  defamed  a  lady  with  whom  he  had  dined  the  day 
before.  He  hurried  on,  then,  as  fast  as  politeness  per- 
mitted him,  in  order  to  avoid  a  longer  tete-a-tete  with 
the  Baron  and  to  join  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  had  now 
arrived.  They  left  the  first  room  for  the  second,  "the 
Porcelain  Room,"  and  the  third,  styled  "  Hall  of  the 
Fresco  of  Perino  del  Vaga,"  from  the  ceiling  where  the 
master  had  painted  a  replica  of  his  vigorous  sketch  of 
Jupiter  destroying  the  Giants,  and  finally  into  a  fourth, 
the  hall  "  Degli  Arazzi,"  from  the  marvellous  tapestries 
with  which  it  was  decorated.  But  few  visitors  were 
moving  about,  for  the  season  was  little  advanced,  and  the 
singular  choice  of  such  a  date  for  selling  the  prince's 
furniture  attested  either  deep  hate  or  the  knavery  of 
a  syndicate  of  dealers.   -AH  the  magnificent  objects  in 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A    DRAMA.  43 

the  palace  would  be  knocked  dovm  for  half  of  what 
they  would  have  fetched  a  few  months  earlier  or  later. 
The  small  number  of  visitors  made  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  profusion  of  furniture,  stuffs,  works  of  art  of 
every  kind,  that  encumbered  the  immense  rooms.  It 
was  a  marvellous  result  of  five  hundred  years  of  power 
and  luxury,  where  masterpieces  worthy  of  the  great 
Medicis,  and  others  of  that  date,  alternated  with  the 
frippery  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  bronzes  of  the 
First  Empire  with  silver  jimcracks  ordered  from  Lon- 
don yesterday.  The  Baron  could  not  restrain  himself ; 
he  had  now  placed  his  famous  eyeglass  on  his  nose,  and 
conversed  with  Dorsenne  as  he  pointed  out  a  curious 
conch,  the  engraving  on  a  dial,  the  embroidery  on  a  cur- 
tain. A  single  look  enabled  him  to  judge  infallibly. 
The  writer,  if  he  had  been  capable  of  observing,  might 
have  perceived,  in  the  banker's  minute  knowledge  of 
the  catalogue,  traces  of  a  deep  study  that  must  have 
some  mysterious  project  in  view. 

"  Tliere  are  treasures  here  !  "  he  said  ;  "  look  at  these 
two  vases  with  domed  covers,  and  this  deep-orange  tint 
reinforced  with  gilding — work  that  they  no  longer  pro- 
duce in  China.  The  art  is  lost.  This  bit  of  old  Saxon 
ornamented  with  flowers  !  And  this  processional  cape 
in  this  glass  case !  What  a  marvel !  It  is  as  good  as  that 
of  Pius  II.  at  Pienza,  which  was  stolen.  I  very  nearly 
bought  it  at  that  time  for  fifteen  hundred  francs.  It 
is  worth  fifteen  thousand,  twenty  thousand,  what  you 
will.  Now  look  at  this  Spanish  -  Moorish  faience.  It 
must  have  been  brought  from  Spain  when  Cardinal 
Castagna,  afterward  Urban  VII.,  went  to  Madrid  to 
take  the  place  of  Pius  V.  as  god-father  of  the  Infanta 
Isabella.  Ah,  what  riches !  But  you  are  going  on  like 
the  wind,"  he  added  ;  "  that  is  the  best  plan,  perhaps, 
for  I  should  stop,  and  Fossati,  to  whom  the  creditors  of 
Peppino  have  entrusted  the  sale,  has  his  spies  every- 
where. If  you  look  at  anything  you  are  known  to  be  a 
solider  Mann,  as  one  says  in  Germany.    You  are  marked 


44  COSMOPOLTS. 

off.  I  must  be  on  his  list.  I  have  been  tricked  enough 
by  him.  He's  a  smart  fellow.  But  see,  here  ai-e  the 
ladies.  We  should  have  remembered  that  they  would 
be  here ! " 

Smiling  (either  at  Fossati,  himself,  or  his  companion) 
he  pointed  out  the  notice  on  the  door  of  a  side-room, 
containing  the  words  "  Hall  of  Wedding  -  coffers." 
There,  ranged  along  the  Avails,  were  fifteen  painted 
and  carved  boxes  of  wood,  the  cassoni  in  which  in  old 
days  it  had  been  the  fashion  in  the  great  Italian 
families  to  place  the  trousseaux  of  new-made  brides. 
Those  of  the  Castagna  family  showed  by  their  escutch- 
eons, what  noble  alliances  had  been  disgraced  by  the 
loss  of  his  hereditary  fortune  by  the  last  of  the  grand- 
nephews  of  Urban  VII.,  the  present  prince  of  Ardea. 
Three  young  ladies  were  occupied  in  examining  them, 
and  Dorsenne  recognized  the  blond  and  slender  Alba 
Steno,  Mme.  Gorka,  with  her  tall  figure,  her  blond  hair, 
and  her  energetic  English  profile  with  its  too-pro- 
nounced chin  ;  the  pretty  Mme.  Maitland,  with  her 
warm  complexion  that  seemed  to  have  derived  from  her 
black  blood  just  a  tinge  of  gold  and  bistre ;  Florent  Chap- 
ron,  her  brother,  the  only  cavalier  with  the  three  ladies. 
Mme.  Steno  and  Lincoln  Maitland  were  absent,  and  the 
musical  voice  of  Alba  was  audible  as  she  spelled  out  the 
arms  carved  on  the  sides  of  the  coffers,  which  had  been 
opened  in  days  past,  with  little  quivers  of  tender  curi- 
osity, by  young  girls  who  had  been  as  laughing  and 
as  dreamy  as  herself. 

"  Look,  Maud,"  she  cried  to  Mme.  Gorka,  "  here  is  the 
oak  of  the  Delia  Rovere,  and  here  the  stars  of  the 
Altieri." 

"  I  have  found  the  column  of  the  Colonnas,"  replied 
Maud  Gorka. 

"  IVhat  do  you  see  ?  "  Mdlle.  Steno  asked  Mme.  Mait- 
land. 

"  I  see  the  bees  of  the  Barberini " 

*'  And  I  the  lilies  of  the  Farnese,"  continued  Florent 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DKAMA.  45 

Chapron  in  his  turn.  As  he  raised  his  head  he  was  the 
first  to  see  the  new-comers.  He  greeted  them  gayly 
with  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  light  up  the  very  white  of 
his  eyes,  and  which  displayed  his  dazzling  teeth.  "  We 
did  not  wait  for  you,  gentlemen ;  everybody  has  broken 
faith  with  us.  Lincoln  would  not  leave  his  studio.  It 
seems  that  Mdlle.  Hafner  made  her  excuses  to  these 
ladies  yesterday.  Countess  Steno  is  a  little  out  of  sorts. 
We  did  not  count  on  the  Baron,  who  is  known  never  to 
be  five  minutes  behind  time." 

"  I  was  sure  that  Dorsenne  would  not  desert  us,"  said 
Alba,  looking  at  the  young  man  with  her  large  eyes, 
whose  blue  was  as  clear  as  that  of  Mme.  Gorka  was  dull ; 
"  but  I  expected  to  meet  him  on  the  staircase  as  we 
were  leaving,  and  hear  him  say  '  What  ?  Am  I  not  in 
time  ?  '  "  Then  she  continued  :  "  Make  no  excuses,  but 
answer  the  examination  in  Roman  history  which  we 
shall  put  you  through.  We  have  had  a  regular  course 
of  lectures  here  on  these  old  boxes.  What  arms  are 
those  ?  "  she  went  on,  asking  the  young  man  to  examine 
the  side  of  one  of  the  cassoni.  "  Don't  you  know  ?  The 
Carafa  arms,  my  most  distinguished  friend.  And  what 
Pope  was  in  their  family  ?  Again  ignorant  ?  Paul  IV., 
my  illustrious  novelist.  If  ever  you  come  to  visit  us  at 
Venice,  I  will  astonish  you  among  the  Doges." 

She  put  such  affectionate  grace  in  this  little  speech, 
and  was  so  visibly  in  one  of  her  hours — alas,  too  rare — 
of  childish  joy,  that  Dorsenne,  occupied  as  he  had  been 
with  thoughts  of  her,  felt  his  heart  tighten.  The  ab- 
sence of  Mme.  Steno  and  Lincoln  Maitland  at  the  same 
time  might  possibly  be  accidental,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
very  suspicious.  Such  an  idea  would  have  been  enough 
to  make  him  distressed  at  the  girl's  innocent  gayety,  but 
the  gayety  was  tragic  if  it  were  true  that  the  Countess's 
other  lover  had  returned  unexpectedly,  summoned  by 
some  information  that  he  had  received.  Dorsenne, 
therefore,  felt  deeply  moved  when  he  said  to  Mme. 
Gorka. 


46  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  How  is  Boleslas  ? " 

*'  Well,  I  suppose,"  the  wife  replied ;  "  I  have  no  letter 
from  him  to-day.  What  does  the  proverb  say — no  news, 
good  news  1 " 

Baron  Hafner  was  standing  at  the  side  of  Mme.  Gorka 
as  she  said  these  words.  Involuntarily  Dorsenne  looked 
at  him,  and  involuntarily,  in  spite  of  his  self-command, 
he  looked  at  Dorsenne.  It  was  no  longer  a  mere  suppo- 
sition that  they  had  to  confront.  The  return  of  Boleslas 
Gorka  to  Eome,  unknown  to  his  wife,  constituted,  for 
anyone  who  knew  his  relations  with  Mme.  Steno  and 
her  infidelity,  too  serious  an  event  for  the  two  men  not  to 
be  struck  with  the  same  thought,  "  Was  there  still  time 
to  avert  a  disaster  ? "  Yet  under  these  circumstances, 
as  in  all  important  crises  of  life,  each  was  bound  to  act 
according  to  his  real  character.  Not  a  muscle  of  Haf- 
ner's  face  moved.  It  was  a  question,  probably,  of  ren- 
dering an  important  service  to  a  woman  in  danger  for 
whom  he  entertained  as  much  friendship  as  for  any- 
one. She  was  the  opening  wedge  for  his  entrance  into 
Roman  society.  She  was  still  more,  for  a  whole  plan  for 
marrying  Fanny,  a  plan  still  secret,  but  ready  to  mature, 
rested  on  Mme.  Steno.  He  could  not,  however,  attempt 
to  render  her  this  service  till  he  had  passed  half  an  hour 
in  the  rooms  of  the  Castagna  Palace,  and  he  set  to  work 
employing  this  half  hour  in  the  manner  most  favorable 
for  his  possible  purchases — ^unless,  indeed,  he  had  a  still 
further  interest.  For,  turning  to  Mme.  Gorka,  he  said, 
with  the  rather  exaggerated  politeness  which  was  habit- 
ual to  him : 

"  Countess,  if  I  may  advise  you,  do  not  linger  before 
those  chests,  however  interesting  they  may  be.  In  the 
first  place,  as  I  just  told  Dorsenne,  the  auctioneer  Fos- 
sati  has  spies  all  about.  You  may  be  sure  that  notice 
has  been  taken  of  the  fact  of  your  standing  here,  and  if 
you  have  a  fancy  for  one  of  these  cofifers,  he  will  know  it 
beforehand — and  will  make  you  pay  double  or  treble  or 
more.    And  there  are  more  riches  to  examine,  espe- 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OP   A   DRAMA.  47 

cially  a  portfolio  of  designs  by  great  masters  which  the 
Prince  never  dreamed  of,  and  which  Fossati  discovered 
— just  think  of  it  ? — half -eaten  by  moths  in  a  cupboard 
in  one  of  the  garrets.     .     .     ." 

"A  very  interesting  collection,"  observed  Florent. 
"  So  is  my  brother-in-law's." 

"I  just  dote  on  two  of  these  chests,"  replied  Mme. 
Gorka,  with  her  habitual  good-humor,  "  and  I  must  have 
them.  I  have  said  this  out  so  loud  that  there  is  no  chance 
of  Fossati  not  having  heard  me, — if  he  really  has  estab- 
lished this  system  of  spies.  Forty  or  fifty  livres  more 
are  not  worth  a  lie — nor  even  forty  thousand." 

"Hafner  is  about  to  say  that  her  tone  is  not  low 
enough,"  said  Alba  Steno  with  a  smile  ;  "  he  will  be  add- 
ing his  final  remark,  '  You  will  never  be  a  diplomatist.' 
But,"  she  added  turning  to  Dorsenne,  as  she  made  way 
for  the  silent  Lydia  Maitland,  and  prepared  to  remain  in 
the  rear  with  the  young  man,  "  I  am  a  little  of  a  diplo- 
mat— enough  so  to  know  that  you  have  some  annoyance." 
Her  mobile  face  changed  its  expression  and  she  looked  at 
Julien  with  genuine  anxiety.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  have 
never  seen  you  so  preoccupied  as  this  morning.  Do  you 
not  feel  well  ?  Have  you  bad  news  from  Paris  ?  In  fine, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Preoccupied?"  replied  Dorsenne.  "You  are  mista- 
ken ;  there  is  nothing  the  matter  I  assure  you."  It  was 
impossible  to  lie  more  awkwardly,  and  he,  if  anyone, 
deserved  Hafner's  sarcasm  and  contempt.  Mme.  Gorka 
had  scarcely  spoken  before  he  had  imagined  the  Coun- 
tess Steno  and  Maitland  surprised  by  Gorka  at  that  very 
instant;  a  challenge  — a  murder  on  the  spot  perhaps. 
And  as  Alba  continued  to  laugh  with  her  clear  laughter, 
his  impression  of  the  wretched  lot  of  the  girl  became  so 
strong  that  his  face  was  overshadowed  by  it.  He  felt 
touched,  when  she  questioned  him,  to  see  the  true,  living 
friendship  she  bore  him.  But  this  efibrt  to  hide  his 
emotion  rendered  his  voice  so  harsh  that  she  cried — 

"  Have  I  annoyed  you  by  my  questions  ?  " 


48  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  he  replied,  without  power 
to  utter  a  kind  word.  He  felt  himself  unable  to  talk,  as 
they  used  to  do,  in  a  tone  of  friendship,  half  jocular, 
half  sentimental,  and  added :  "I  merely  feel  this  exhibi- 
tion rather  melancholy.  That's  all."  Then  with  a  smile, 
"  Let  us  not  lose  this  opportunity  of  having-  it  shown  to 
us  by  our  incomparable  cicerone,"  he  hurried  her  on  to  the 
group  which  Hafner  was  guiding-  through  the  magnifi- 
cent display  of  the  almost  deserted  room.  The  party 
continued  its  promenade,  but  one  heard  in  turns  the 
low  voice  of  the  Baron  commenting  on  the  skilful  ar- 
rangement of  everything  by  the  sellers,  and  the  clear 
voices  of  the  visitors  questioning  him. 

"Look!"  said  the  second-hand  broker  of  Berlin  and 
Paris,  now  turned  into  a  cultivated  amateur — "  look 
how  this  humbug  Fossati  has  taken  pains  not  to  put 
away  bibelots  in  the  reception  rooms.  These  couches 
seem  to  invite  sitters.  They  are  well  known.  They  were 
reproduced  in  the  Paris  'Review  of  Decorative  Art.' 
....  And  that  dining-room  through  this  door,  with 
all  the  plate  arranged  on  the  table,  would  not  one  think 
it  prepared  for  a  grand  dinner?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Baron,"  said  Mme.  Gorka,  "  look  at  this  tapestry ; 
it  is  eighteenth  century,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Baron,"  interrupted  Mme.  Maitland,  "this  cup  and 
cover ;  is  it  Old  Vienna,  or  Capodimonte  ?  " 

"  Baron,"  cried  Florent  Chapron,  "  is  this  back-piece 
Florentine  or  Milan  work  ?  " 

The  glasses  quivered  on  the  thin  flexible  tip  of  the 
Baron's  nose,  his  little  eyes  twinkled,  his  lips  contracted, 
and  he  answered  as  correctly  as  if  he  had  studied  every 
detail  of  the  catalogue.  A  chorus  of  "  Thank  you's  "  fol- 
lowed other  questions  in  which  two  voices  only,  those 
of  Alba  and  Dorsenne,  took  no  part.  Under  any  other 
circumstances  the  latter  would  have  striven  to  dissipate 
the  increasing  sadness  of  the  girl,  who  had  ceased  to 
speak  after  he  had  repulsed  her  friendly  anxiety.  In 
fact,  he  did  not  attach  much  importance  to  it.    These 


THE   COMMENCEMENT   OF   A   DRAMA.  49 

changes  from  excessive  gayety  to  sudden  depression 
were  so  habitual  in  the  Contessina,  especially  when  she 
was  with  him !  Although  they  were  the  indisputable 
evidence  of  excessive  feeling,  he  would  only  see  in 
them  a  sign  of  nervous  excitement,  and,  besides,  his 
mind  was  too  much  occupied  elsewhere.  He  was  asking 
himself  whether,  after  Mme.  Gorka's  remarks,  it  would 
not  be  prudent  to  communicate  to  Lincoln  Maitland  this 
clandestine  retuni  of  his  rival.  Perhaps  the  drama  had 
not  yet  been  acted,  and  if  only  the  two  threatened  per- 
sons could  be  put  on  their  guard  ,  .  .  ?  Without  doubt 
Hafner  would  warn  the  Countess  Steno.  But  where 
would  he  see  her  I  He,  Dorsenne,  might  mention  this 
reappearance  of  Gorka  to  Maitland's  brother-in-law,  to 
Florent  Chapron,  whom  he  saw  at  that  very  moment 
gazing  on  all  the  objects  of  this  princely  exhibition  with 
the  tender  love  of  a  devoted  slave.  To  do  so  was  a 
dangerous  business,  and  would  have  appeared  so  to 
anyone  else.  But  Julien  was  a  prey  to  that  feeling  of 
the  passage  of  time  that  robs  of  their  coolness  nervous 
men,  especially  writers  accustomed  by  their  profession 
to  never  distinguish  the  possible  from  the  real.  More- 
over, the  relations  between  Florent  Chapron  and  Lin- 
coln Maitland  were  of  a  very  peculiar  nature.  They  had 
interested  the  novelist  too  deeply  for  him  not  to  take 
into  accoimt  his  previous  observations  in  this  moment 
of  anxiety.  He  knew  that  Florent,  sent  in  youth  to  the 
Jesuits  of  Beaumont,  in  England,  by  a  father  who  was 
desirous  of  sparing  him  the  humiliations  which  his  blood 
entailed  in  America,  had  conceived  an  exalted  friendship 
for  his  fellow-pupil,  Lincoln.  He  knew  that  this  friend- 
ship for  his  school-fellow  had  turned  into  equal  enthu- 
siasm for  the  artist,  when  the  latter's  talent  began  to  de- 
velop, and  he  believed  that  the  marriage  that  had  placed 
Lydia's  fortune  at  the  service  of  the  painter's  talents, 
was  the  work  of  this  enthusiasm,  at  a  period  when  Mait- 
land, wearied  by  his  mother's  bad  management,  and  not 
yet  appreciated  by  the  public  so  as  to  live  by  his  brush, 


60  COSMOPOLIS. 

was  in  the  depths  of  despair.  The  exceptional  char- 
acter of  the  marriag-e  would  have  astonished  a  man  who 
thought  less  of  moral  eccentricities  than  Dorsenne.  He 
had  too  often  remarked  the  silence  and  retiring  be- 
havior of  the  sister,  not  to  consider  her  a  victim.  He 
thought  that  the  worship  of  Maitland's  glory  had 
blinded  Florent  to  such  extent  that  he  was  the  prime 
cause  of  the  sacrifice. 

"  Drama  for  drama,"  he  reflected  as  their  visit  drew  to 
a  close,  and  after  a  long  internal  conflict.  "I  prefer 
one  in  this  family  rather  than  in  the  other.  ...  I 
shall  reproach  myself  all  my  life  for  not  having  tried 
everything ! "  They  were  in  the  last  room,  and  Hafner 
was  tying  with  his  long  dexterous  fingers  the  cords 
of  the  portfolio  of  drawings  which  one  of  the  assistants 
had  brought,  when  this  resolution  finally  took  posses- 
sion of  the  young  man.  Alba  Steno,  who  was  still 
silent,  looked  at  him  again,  with  eyes  that  revealed  the 
struggle  between  her  interest  in  him  and  her  injured 
pride.  She  would  doubtless  at  the  moment  of  separation 
ask  him,  in  her  friendly  and  charming  way,  when  they 
should  meet  again.  He  thought  not  of  that,  nor  of 
other  eyes  which  told  him  to  be  prudent — the  eyes  of 
the  Baron,  nor  of  the  observant  looks  of  Mme.  Gorka, 
who,  after  noticing  at  last  Alba's  ill-humor,  was  specu- 
lating on  its  cause,  which  she  had  long  before  guessed 
to  be  in  the  young  girl's  heart — ^nor  of  the  attitude  of 
Mme.  Maitland,  whose  eyeballs  gleamed  at  times  with 
flashes  of  treachery  equal  to  those  of  gentleness  in  her 
brother's.  He  took  the  latter  by  the  arm  and  said 
aloud : 

"  I  would  like  to  have  your  opinion,  Chapron,  on  a 
little  portrait  I  noticed  in  the  other  room."  Then, 
when  they  were  in  front  of  some  canvas  that  served  as 
a  pretext  to  this  aside,  he  went  on,  in  a  low  tone :  "  I 
heard,  this  morning,  a  strange  piece  of  news.  Fancy, 
Boleslas  Gorka  is  back  in  Rome,  unknown  to  his 
wife." 


BOLESLAS  GORKA.  61 

"  Strang-e,  indeed,"  the  brother-in-law  replied,  adding 
simply,  after  a  pause,  "  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  As  sure  as  we  are  here,"  said  Dorsenne.  "  One  of 
my  friends,  the  Marquis  de  Montfauon,  met  him  this 
morning." 

There  was  again  an  interval  of  silence  between  the 
speakers,  during  which  Julien  felt  the  arm  that  he  held 
trembling.  They  resumed  their  places  beside  the  rest, 
and  Florent  remarked  aloud,  *'  A  good  bit  of  painting, 
but,  unfortunately,  too  heavily  revarnished." 

"  I  was  right,"  thought  Julien.  "  He  understands 
me." 


III. 

BOLESLAS  GORKA. 

Not  ten  minutes  elapsed  since  Dorsenne  had  spoken 
as  he  had  to  Florent  Chai^ron,  before  the  rash  novelist 
began  to  ask  himself  if  he  would  not  have  been  wiser 
not  to  mix  himself  up,  much  or  little,  with  an  affair  in 
which  his  interference  was  at  most  useless.  The  appre- 
hension of  an  immediate  disaster  which  had  disturbed 
him,  once,  after  his  conversation  with  Montfanon, 
and  again,  more  strongly,  when  he  ascertained  the  ig- 
norance of  Mme.  Gorka  on  the  matter  of  her  husband's 
return — the  frightful,  irresistible  vision  of  a  chamber 
suddenly  deluged  with  blood,  was  banished  by  one  of  the 
simplest  incidents.  The  six  visitors  were  interchang- 
ing their  last  remarks  on  the  melancholy  and  splendor 
of  the  Castagna  Palace,  and  were  descending  the  vast 
graceful  staircase  with  its  colonnettes  and  windows 
through  which  the  burning  sun  continued  to  smile  on 
the  dark  greenery  and  bright  flowers  of  the  narrow 
garden  which  Dorsenne  had  compared  to  a  face.  The 
young  man  was  walking  a  little  in  advance  with  Alba 
Steno,  whose  vexed  and  cold  expression  he  was  trying 
to  cheer  up,  when,  suddenly,  at  the  last  turning  of  the 


52  COSMOPOLIS. 

wide,  long  steps  that  rendered  the  slope  so  easy,  her 
face  was  illuminated  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  The 
Contessina  uttered  a  little  scream.  "  Why,  here  is  my 
mother ! "  and  Julien  saw  before  him  the  same  Mrae. 
Steno  whom  his  mad  fit  of  anxiety  had  painted  to  his 
imagination  as  surprised,  ill-used,  murdered  by  a 
deceived  lover.  She  stood  on  the  black  and  gray 
mosaic  of  the  peristyle,  clad  in  the  daintiest  and  softest 
of  morning  dresses,  of  thin  homespun.  Her  golden 
hair  was  massed  under  a  large  hat,  with  flowers  and  a 
floating  white  veil ;  her  hand  trifled  with  the  engraved 
silver  handle  of  a  white  parasol,  and,  amid  the  reflections 
of  all  this  whiteness,  with  her  clear  blond  complexion, 
her  beautiful  blue  eyes  beaming  with  passion  and 
intelligence,  her  marvellous  teeth  that  shone  beneath 
her  smiles,  her  figure,  still  slender  in  spite  of  her  opul- 
ence of  bust,  she  looked  a  creature  so  young,  so  strong, 
so  untouched  by  life,  that  no  stranger  could  have  fancied 
her  the  mother  of  the  tall  girl  who  had  run  up  to  her 
and  said  • 

"  How  imprudent ! — ill  as  you  were  this  morning,  to 
come  out  in  such  a  sun,  and  why  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  come  and  take  you  home,"  the  Countess 
replied,  gayly.  "  I  was  ashamed  of  having  given  way, 
and  got  up.  So  here  I  am !  Good-day,  Dorsenne.  I 
hope  you  have  kept  your  eyes  well  open,  upstairs. 
There  is  a  story  to  be  written  on  this  business  of  Prince 
Ardea.  I  will  relate  it  to  you.  Good-day,  Maud.  How 
kind  of  you  to  make  lazy  little  Alba  take  more  exercise. 
She  would  have  another  complexion  if  she  took  a  walk 
every  morning.  Good-day,  Florent.  Good-day,  Lydia. 
And  is  not  the  Master  here  ?  You,  my  old  friend,  what 
have  you  done  with  Fanny  ?  " 

In  distributing  these  simple  "Good-days,"  she  had 
such  delicate  shading  of  graciousness,  such  a  partic- 
ular smile  for  each — tender  toward  the  daughter,  ap- 
preciative toward  the  writer,  grateful  toward  Mme. 
Gorka,    surprised    at  Chapron    and  Mme.    Maitland; 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  03 

familiar  and  confiding  toward  the  "  Old  Friend,"  as 
she  called  the  Baron — she  was  so  evidently  the  soul  of 
the  little  society  that  her  mere  presence  kindled  life  in 
every  eye.  They  all  replied  at  once,  and  she  replied  to 
each  as  they  walked  toward  the  carriages  in  the  spa- 
cious court.  One  after  another  the  carriages  came  for- 
ward, the  brougham  of  the  Baron,  the  landau  of  Mme. 
Gorka,  the  victoria  of  Mme.  Maitland.  The  horses 
pranced.  The  harness  glittered.  The  footmen  and 
coachmen  were  in  such  correct  liveries — the  porter 
of  the  Castagna  Palace,  in  his  long  coat  with  its  buttons 
bearing  the  symbolic  chestnut-tree  of  the  Castagna 
family,  and  with  his  laced  cocked  hat,  had  such  an  im- 
posing presence,  that  Julien  suddenly  felt  himself  ab- 
surd to  imagine  a  savage  drama  of  passion  among  such 
people.  He  was  the  last  to  leave,  and  as  he  watched 
the  others  departing,  he  again  had  the  sensation  of 
ironical  and  indulgent  gayety,  common  to  those  who 
know  the  wrong  side  of  the  splendors  of  the  world,  and 
who  see  there,  forcibly,  moral  poverty  and  childish- 
ness. 

"  You  have  been  a  big  fool,  my  friend  Dorsenne,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  took  his  seat  in  one  of  the  demo- 
cratic vehicles,  which  were  called  "  boxes  "  at  Rome  ; 
"  To  fear  a  tragic  adventure  in  the  case  of  a  woman  like 
that,  and  with  such  self-possession,  is  much  like  jump- 
ing into  the  water  to  prevent  a  shark  from  drowning. 
If  she  had  not  Maitland's  kisses  still  on  her  lips,  I  know 
nothing !  She  came  straight  from  their  meeting.  That 
was  plain,  to  me,  in  her  convenient  dress,  her  rosy 
cheeks,  her  little  slippers  that  had  not  taken  thirty 
steps  on  foot ! — with  what  maestria  she  flung  out  her 
net  of  lies.  Her  daughter,  Mme.  Gorka,  Mme.  Mait- 
land— how  she  swept  them  all  in !  This  is  the  reason  I 
do  not  like  the  theatre.  Where  can  one  find  an  actress 
who  possesses  such  a  tone  for  saying,  '  The  Master  not 
here "? ' "  He  laughed  aloud,  and  then,  as  he  unceasingly 
imagined  situations  of  character,  beyond  the  situations 


64  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  sentiment  which  reality  presented,  his  roving  fancy 
fearlessly  set  out  on  a  new  path,  and,  using  the  word 
common  to  cosmopolites  of  German  origin  to  designate 
a  stupid  action,  he  thought,  "  I  have  committed  a  pretty 
'  schlemylade,'  as  Hafner  would  say,  in  telling  Florent 
of  Gorka's  unexpected  arrival.  It  would  have  been 
better  to  tell  him  plainly  that  Maitland  is  the  Countess's 
lover.  I  should  like  to  overhear  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  two  brothers-in-law,  I  should  not  be  surprised 
if  this  negro  in  want  of  a  job  is  the  confidant  of  this 
great  man  !  It  is  a  fine  subject,  never  yet  well  done  : 
the  passionate  friendship  of  a  Tallet  for  a  Musset,  an 
Erckmann  for  a  Goethe,  an  Asselineau  for  a  Baudelaire, 
the  total  absorption  of  the  admirer  in  the  person  ad- 
mired. Florent  discovered  that  the  genius  of  this  great 
painter  required  a  fortune,  so  he  gave  him  his  sister's. 
If  he  discovers  this  genius  requires  a  passion  for  its 
furtherdevelopment,  he  will  joyfully  be  the  go-between. 
On  my  word  of  honor,  he  looked  at  the  Countess  just 
now  with  an  air  of  gratitude.  Why  not,  after  all  ? 
Lincoln  is  a  colorist  of  the  front  rank,  although  his 
desire  of  being  up  to  date  beguiles  him  into  too  many 
imitations.  It  is  all  race.  Mme.  Maitland  has  as 
much  sense  as  a  broom-stick,  and  Mme.  Steno  is  one 
of  those  extraordinary  women  who  are  created  to  exalt 
an  ai-tist's  vitality.  He  had  never  before  done  anything 
like  Alba's  portrait.  I  can  hear  the  dialogue  right  here. 
'  You  know  the  Pole  is  back  ? '  '  What  Pole  ? '  '  Your 
Countess's.'  '  Why,  you  believe  these  slanders  ? '  Mait- 
land will  be  grand  as  he  utters  this  inevitable  remark. 
Ah,  what  comedies  one  misses  in  this  world  of  ours. 
My  driver  has  committed  a  scMemylade,  too.  I  told 
him  Via  Sistena,  by  La  Trinity  dei  Monti,  and  here  he 
is  going  by  the  Piazza  Barberini,  in  place  of  cutting 
across  by  Capo  le  Case.  It  is  my  mistake,  too.  I  see 
nothing  when  the  bee  in  my  bonnet  is  buzzing.  Let  us 
admire  at  least  Bernini's  Triton,  as  he  blows  the 
water  through  his  conch.     What  genius  in  that  great 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  56 

sculptor,  who  never  thoug-ht  of  nature  but  to  falsify 
her !     Talk  of  sesthetics  after  that !  " 

These  incoherent  reflections,  during'  which  the  novel- 
ist had  again  traversed  a  third  of  Kome,  ended  in  a 
very  optimistic  frame  of  mind,  as  was  seen  when  the 
hack  stopped  at  the  address  he  had  given.  It  was  that 
of  a  very  modest  restaurant,  adorned  with  a  thoroughly 
Tuscan  sign,  Trattoria  at  Marzocco,  and  the  MarzoccOj 
the  symbolic  lion  of  Florence,  was  represented  above 
the  door  with  his  paw  on  the  escutcheon  that  bore  the 
national  lily.  The  exterior  of  the  house  scarcely  justi- 
fied the  choice  of  it,  by  a  man  of  Dorsenne's  taste,  as 
his  dining-place  whenever  he  was  not  asked  out  to 
dinner.  But  his  species  of  dilettanteism  adored  noth- 
ing so  much  as  these  sudden  contrasts  of  societies,  and 
Egisto  Brancadori,  who  kept  the  Marzocco,  was  one  of 
those  unconscious  buffoons  whom  he  was  ceaselessly 
searching  for  in  real  life.  He  used  to  call  them  "  The- 
bans,"  in  memory  of  King  Lear's  "I'll  talk  a  word 
with  this  same  learned  Theban,"  the  exclamation 
which  the  king,  when  he  became  mad,  uttered,  we 
know  not  why,  on  meeting  "  Poor  Tom  "  on  the  heath. 
In  order  that  his  Parisian  friends,  the  Casals,  the  Ma- 
chaults,  the  de  Vardes,  might  not  judge  him  too  severely, 
it  may  be  added  that  his  Florentine  Theban  was,  at  the 
same  time,  a  first-class  cook,  and  his  modest  restaurant 
had  its  traditions,  which  always  diverted  a  paradoxi- 
cal observer  like  Julien.  He  used  to  say :  "  Who  will 
ever  dare  to  write  the  truth  of  history.  This  bit,  for 
example :  Pope  Pius  IX.  asked  Napoleon  III.  to  lend 
him  some  soldiers  to  protect  his  states ;  the  latter 
consented  ;  the  occupation  of  Rome  had  two  results :  a 
Corsican  hatred  of  one-half  of  Italy  toward  France, 
and  the  foundation  of  the  Marzocco  by  Egisto  Bran- 
cadori, called  the  Theban  or  the  Doctor."  This  was  a 
little  joke  on  Dorsenne's  part,  Avho  pretended  to  have 
been  cured  of  dyspepsia  in  Italy  by  the  sage  and 
wholesome   cookery  of  Egisto   aforesaid.     In  reality, 


66  COSMOPOLIS. 

and  more  simply,  Brancadori  had  been  the  chef  of  a 
great  Russian  noble,  one  of  the  Werekiew  family,  a 
cousin  of  the  real  father  of  pretty  Alba  Steno.  This 
Werekiew,  who  had  been  famous  for  his  dinners  at 
Rome,  died  suddenly  in  1866,  and  some  friends  of  the 
family,  under  the  advice  of  a  French  ofticer  of  the  army 
of  occupation,  and  tired  of  clubs,  hotels,  and  restau- 
rants, resolved  to  continue  and  act  as  backers  to  the 
cook  of  the  late  Werekiew.  They  established  in  his 
name,  in  an  unpretending  spot,  a  kind  of  superior  mess, 
which  they  might,  without  much  vanity,  have  styled  a 
culinary  club.  By  guaranteeing  him  a  minimum  of 
sixteen  dinners  at  seven  francs  a  head,  they  had  had 
for  four  years  an  exquisite  table,  at  which  every  dis- 
tinguished visitor  who  came  to  Rome  in  those  days  had 
been  seated.  The  year  1870  dispersed  this  little  club 
of  gourmets  and  talkers,  and  the  club-house  was  trans- 
formed into  a  restaurant,  almost  unknown  except  to 
some  artists  or  diplomats  who  were  attracted  by  the 
traditions  of  its  ancient  splendor  and  by  their  appre- 
ciation of  the  Doctor's  talents.  It  was  no  rare  sight 
to  see  the  three  little  rooms  that  formed  the  establish- 
ment filled  about  eight  o'clock  with  white  ties,  white 
waistcoats,  and  evening  coats.  A  cosmopolite  like 
Dorsenne  found  the  spectacle  singularly  entertaining: 
a  corner  of  the  English  Embassy  here,  a  comer  of  the 
Russian  Embassy  there ;  two  German  attaches  else- 
where ;  two  French  secretaries  accredited  to  the  Vati- 
can, another  to  the  Quirinal.  But  the  novelist  was 
still  more  delighted  by  the  conversation  of  the  "  Doc- 
tor "  himself,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write.  But 
he  preserved  a  clear  recollection  of  all  his  ancient 
guests,  and  when  he  felt  himself  among  men  he  could 
trust,  he  would  stand  erect  on  the  threshold  of  his 
kitchen,  the  cleanness  of  which  rendered  him  inordi- 
nately proud,  and  tell  anecdotes  of  the  by-gone  Rome 
which  had  been  so  curious  in  his  youth.  His  gestures, 
uneducated  but  in  keeping  with  his  surroundings,  his 


BOLESLAS   GOUKA.  67 

mobile  features,  his  Tuscan  dialect,  that  sweet  tongue 
that  softens  the  hard  "  c  "  between  vowels  into  "  h," 
gave  a  flavor  to  his  stories  that  delighted  the  curious 
seeker  after  local  color.  Especially  in  the  morning, 
when  there  was  hardly  anyone  in  the  restaurant,  he 
would  gladly  leave  his  furnaces  to  chatter ;  and  if  Dor- 
senne  on  this  occasion  gave  to  his  hack-driver  the 
address  of  the  Marzocco,  it  was  with  a  hope  that  the  old 
chef  would  sketch  in  his  wonted  manner,  for  him,  the 
history  of  the  ruin  of  Ardea.  He  found  Brancadori 
standing  by  the  cash-desk,  where  his  niece,  Sabatina, 
was  enthroned.  Her  charming  Florentine  face,  with 
its  rather  long  chin,  its  rather  broad  brow,  its  rather 
short  nose,  and  its  curling  lips,  her  large  black  eyes 
with  a  golden  tint  in  them,  and  her  waving  hair,  re- 
called in  striking  fashion  the  favorite  type  of  the  first 
of  the  Ghirlandajo. 

"  Uncle,"  said  the  girl,  on  perceiving  Dorsenne, 
"where  have  you  put  the  letter  sent  here  for  the 
Prince  ? "  In  Italy  every  stranger  is  a  prince  or  a 
count,  and  the  profound  bonhomie  of  Italian  manners 
gives  to  these  titles,  even  in  the  mouth  of  those  who 
confer  them,  an  expression  of  amiability  usually  devoid 
of  all  sordid  calculation.  In  no  country  in  the  world 
does  there  prevail  a  truer  or  more  charming  familiarity 
of  classes  than  in  Italy,  and  Brancadori  gave  a  proof  of 
it  at  once,  in  addressing  as  Caro  lei,  that  is  "  my  dear 
fellow,"  the  visitor  whom  his  niece  had  adorned  with  a 
closed  coronet.  Then  rummaging  in  the  pockets  of  the 
alpaca  jacket  he  wore  under  his  cook's  apron,  he  ex- 
claimed : 

—  "A  testa  hianca  spesso  cervello  manca.  I  put  it  in 
my  coat  pocket  to  be  sure  that  I  would  not  forget  it. 
I  changed  my  clothes,  as  it  was  too  warm,  and  I  must 
have  left  the  letter  in  my  bedroom." 

"  You  need  not  get  it  till  after  breakfast,"  said  Dor- 
senne. 

*'  Oh,  no,"  replied  the  girl,  rising.     "  It  is  only  a 


58  COSMOPOLIS. 

couple  of  steps,  and  I'll  go  for  it.  The  janitor  of  the 
palace  where  his  Excellence  dwells  brought  it  himself, 
and  insisted  that  it  must  be  delivered  at  once." 

"  "Well,  go  fetch  it,"  said  Julien,  who,  although  ac- 
customed to  it,  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  ennobling 
of  his  lodging  as  well  as  of  himseK,  "  and  I'll  stay  and 
talk  with  the  Doctor  while  he  is  preparing  his  prescrip- 
tion for  this  morning,  that  is,  his  bill-of-fare.  Guess 
where  I've  come  from,  Brancadori,"  he  added,  to  arouse 
the  curiosity  and  chattering  propensity  of  the  cook ; 
"  from  the  Castagna  Palace,  where  everything  is  to  be 
sold." 

"  Per  Bacco  !  "  cried  the  Tuscan,  with  visible  distress 
in  the  old  parchment  face  that  had  been  reddened  by 
forty  years  of  stewpan  fires ;  "  if  the  late  Prince  Urban 
sees  that  in  the  other  world,  his  heart  will  break,  I 
swear.  The  last  time  he  came  to  dine  here — ten  years 
ago — was  on  the  Saint  Joseph,  and  he  said  to  me,  '  You 
will  make  me  some  fritters,  Egisto,  like  those  we  used 
to  have  with  M.  d'Epinay,  M.  Clairin,  Fortuny,  and 
poor  Henri  Regnault ! '  And  he  was  pleased.  He 
stopped  to  talk  to  me.  *  Egisto,'  he  said,  '  I  can  go  to 
my  grave.  I  have  only  one  son,  and  I  leave  him  six 
millions  and  the  palace.  If  it  were  Gigi,  I  should  not 
be  easy,  but  with  Peppino ' — Gigi  was  the  other,  the 
older  son  who  is  dead,  a  gay  fellow,  who  came  here 
every  day  in  the  time  of  those  gentlemen ;  a  good  lad, 
but  such  a  scamp !  You  should  have  heard  him  tell 
the  story  of  his  visit  to  Pius  IX.,  on  the  day  when  he 
converted  an  Englishman.  Yes,  your  Excellence,  he 
converted  him,  by  lending  him,  in  mistake,  a  religious 
book  instead  of  a  novel.  The  Englishman  took  the 
book,  read  it,  read  another  after  it,  read  a  third,  and 
turned  Catholic.  Gigi,  who  did  not  stand  well  at  the 
Vatican,  rushed  off  to  boast  of  his  achievement  to  the 
Holy  Father.  '  See,  my  son,'  said  Pius  IX.,  *  what  in- 
struments the  Lord  God  can  employ.'  He  would  have 
consumed  those  millions  in  having  a  good  time,  while 


BOLE9LA8  GORKA.  59 

Pepiiino  .  .  .  !  They  all  went  in  signed  paper.  Just 
fancy,  the  name  of  Ardea  was  worth  money.  He  gam- 
bled on  the  Bourse,  lost,  g-ambled  again,  lost  again,  and 
then  came  his  signing  acceptances  after  acceptances.  '  I 
sign'  and  *I  sign,'  and  every  time  he  made  this  little 
flourish,  as  I  might  with  my  pencil — only  I  cannot  sign 
my  name — it  was  one  hundred  thousand,  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  sent  running  over  the  world.  And 
now  he  has  to  leave  his  home  and  leave  Rome.  What 
will  he  do  then,  your  Excellence,  I  ask  you  ?  "  and  with 
a  shake  of  his  head,  "  He  will  have  to  rebuild  his  fort- 
une abroad.  We  say  in  Tuscany, '  who  squanders  money 
with  his  hands,  must  make  it  with  his  feet.'  But  here 
comes  Sabatina  back,  she  is  as  active  as  a  cat." 

The  indescribable  pantomime  of  the  man,  his  prov- 
erbs, the  background  of  old  customs  sketched  in  be- 
hind his  story  in  his  recollection  of  the  feast  of  Saint 
Joseph,  when  all  the  cook-shops  display  the  orthodox 
"  fritters ;"  the  dry  humor  of  Pius  IX.,  reproduced  with 
the  old  pope's  accent,  the  strikingly  original  picture  of 
the  heir  of  the  Castagnas,  signing,  signing ;  the  rough 
and  ready  explanation  of  his  ruiu,  quite  true  by  the 
way — everything  in  his  conversation  amused  Dorsenne. 
He  knew  enough  Italian  to  appreciate  the  intranslata- 
ble  shades  of  this  man  of  the  people — say  rather — man  of 
Florence.  He  was  about  to  laugh  again,  as  the  ma- 
donna of  the  broken  fresco,  as  he  sometimes  called  the 
young  girl,  handed  him  an  envelope  with  an  address 
that  at  once  changed  his  smile  into  a  grimace  of  uncon- 
cealed annoyance.  He  pushed  back  the  bill-of-fare  that 
the  old  chef  was  presenting,  and  said,  abruptly,  "  I  am 
very  much  afraid  I  cannot  stay  to  breakfast."  Then 
opening  the  letter,  "  No,  I  cannot,  good-by."  He  went 
out  in  such  a  troubled  and  hasty  manner,  that  the  uncle 
and  niece  looked  at  each  other  with  a  smile.  Tliese 
genuine  southerns  cannot  imagine  that  a  handsome 
young  man  like  Dorsenne  can  have  any  cares  beyond 
cares  of  the  heart. 


60  OOSMOPOLIS. 

"  Chi  ha  Vamor  iiel  petto,"  said  Sabatina. 

*'  Ha  lo  spron  neijianchi"  replied  the  uncle.  The  simple 
adage,  comparing-  passion  in  the  breast  to  spurs  in  the 
courser's  flanks,  did  not  hold  true  of  Dorsenne,  although 
its  application  in  the  present  circumstance  was  not  en- 
tirely out  of  place.  The  novelist  himself  was  com- 
menting on  it,  in  a  different  form,  as  he  repeated  to 
himself  during  his  walk  along  the  Via  Sistina,  all  bathed 
in  sunshine  that  increased  his  nervousness.  "  No,  never, 
no !  I  will  not  meddle  with  this  affair,  I'll  tell  him  so, 
straight  and  plain."  He  took  the  letter,  the  perusal  of 
which  had  suddenly  produced  a  crisis  of  disquietude 
still  more  poignant  than  those  he  had  experienced 
twice  already.  He  was  not  mistaken  in  recognizing  on 
the  envelope  the  writing  of  Boleslas  Gorka,  and  to  read 
in  phrases,  terribly  mysterious  in  the  present  situa- 
tion, the  brief  message : 

"  I  kncna,  my  dear  Julien,  that  you  are  a  true  friend,  and 
I  have  svjch  a  regard  for  your  chivalric  and  French  char- 
acter that  I  have  decided  to  apply  to  you  in  a  very  tragic 
circumstance  in  my  life.  I  must  see  you  immediately  ;  / 
am  loaiting  at  your  rooms.  I  sent  a  note  like  this  to  the 
Hunt  Club,  to  your  bookseller  on  tJie  Corso,  to  your  bric-d- 
hrac  dealer.  Wherever  my  appeal  reaches  you,  leave  every- 
thing and  come.  You  tvill  save  more  tlian  life.  For  a 
reason  I  shall  tell  you,  my  return  is  absolutely  secret.  No 
ONE,  you  icill  understand,  Jcnotvs  of  it  but  you.  I  need 
not  ivrite  more  to  a  friend  as  sure  as  you  arCy  and  whom  I 
heartily  embrace. 

"  He  beats  everything,"  Dorsenne  repeated,  as  he 
crumpled  up  the  letter  with  increasing  anger ;  "  he  heart- 
ily embraces  me !  I  am  his  best  friend !  I  am  chivalric, 
French,  the  only  person  he  esteems !  TMiat  disagree- 
able commission  does  he  beg  of  me  to  discharge  ?  Into 
what  wasp's  nest  does  he  ask  me  to  plunge,  unless  I 
have  already  plunged  into  one  ?    I  know  this  tribe  of 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  61 

men  who  protest  to  entrap  you.  '  It  is  a  life  and  death 
struggle !  Do  me  a  favor ! '  Then  they  upset  all  your 
habits,  they  waste  your  time,  they  launch  you  into  trage- 
dies, and  when  you  say  *  No,'  squarely,  they  accuse  you 
of  egotism  and  treachery.  I  am  to  blame,  too.  Why  did 
I  listen  to  his  confidences  ?  Have  I  not  known  for 
years  that  a  man  who  tells  you  his  love  affairs  is  a  cad, 
an  actor,  or  a  fool,  sometimes  all  three.  With  cads, 
fools,  and  actors  we  can  have  nothing  in  common. 

"  Of  course,  at  first  he  amused  me  by  relating  his  in- 
trigue, naming  no  names,  as  they  all  do  to  begin  with. 
He  amused  me  more  by  the  artifices  he  went  through 
to  name  her  without  violating  what  men  of  the  world 
call  honor.  And  to  think  that  women  believe  in  such 
honor,  such  discretion ! — Then,  it  was  the  surest  road 
for  me  to  get  admission  at  all  times  to  Mme.  Steno  and 
see  Alba.  I'll  have  to  pay  for  my  Roman  flirtation,  I 
fancy.  We'll  see  about  that.  If  Gorka  is  from  Poland, 
I  am  from  Lorraine.  There  is  a  proverb  about  us  Lor- 
rainers,  too,  and  the  heir  of  the  Polish  Castellans  will 
not  make  me  do  anything  but  what  suits  me — ^not  a 
jot." 

In  this  bad  temper  and  with  this  resolve,  Julien  came 
to  the  door  of  his  house.  If  this  abode  was  not  a 
palace,  as  Sabatina  styled  it,  it  was  by  no  means  the 
vulgar  tenement  so  common  to-day  in  modem  Rome,  as 
in  contemporary  Paris,  and  new  Berlin,  and  in  certain 
London  streets  opened  near  Hyde  Park.  It  was  an  old 
building,  projecting  into  the  Piazza  della  Trinity  dei 
Monti,  at  the  corner  of  the  Via  Sistina  and  the  Via 
Gregoriana.  Although  reduced  to  the  condition  of  a 
lodging-house,  more  or  less  commonplace,  the  house 
was  mentioned  in  some  guide-books,  and  like  all  the 
works  of  old  Rome,  it  preserved  traces  of  glorious  artis- 
tic traditions.  The  tiny  columns  of  the  porch  before  it 
had  given  to  it  the  name  of  the  Tempietto,  or  Little 
Temple,  and  many  persons,  dear  to  literature,  had 
dwelt  there,  from  Claude  Lorrain,  the  landscape  artist, 


62  COSMOPOLIS. 

to  the  poet  Frangois  Coppee.  Two  paces  off,  almost 
opposite,  Poussin  had  lived,  and  one  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  English  lyric  poets,  Keats,  died  near  by,  the 
same  John  Keats  whose  tomb  can  be  seen  at  Rome  in 
the  cemetery  which  is  dominated  by  the  pyramid  of 
Cestius,  with  the  sad  epitaph,  written  by  his  own  hand. 

Here  lies  one  wliose  name  was  writ  on  water. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  Dorsenne  returned  home 
without  repeating  his  translation  of  the  pathetic  line,  or 
recalling,  if  it  was  evening,  the  charming  fragment  of 
**  Les  Intimites,"  sweet  and  sad  as  a  background  of  one 
of  Leonardo's  pictures : 

Le  del  se  nuauQait  de  vert  tendre  et  de  rose, 

but  on  this  occasion  he  made  his  entry  in  a  much  more 
prosaic  fashion.  He  addressed  the  janitor  in  the  tone 
of  a  jealous  husband,  or  a  debtor  pestered  by  duns : 
"  You've  given  my  key  to  someone,  it  seems,  Tonino  ?  '* 
"The  Count  Gorka  said  that  your  Excellence  had 
begged  him  to  wait  here,"  the  old  man  replied,  with  a 
timidity  rendered  comic  by  the  formidable  cut  of  his 
gray  mustache  and  his  white  chin-tuft,  that  made  him 
into  a  caricature  of  the  late  king  Victor  Emanuel.  He 
had  served  in  '59  under  the  Galantuomo,  and  he  thus  paid 
homage,  as  a  veteran  of  Solferino,  to  his  glorious  mem- 
ory. His  large,  staring  eyes  rolled  in  alarm  beneath 
his  grenadier-eyebrows  at  the  slightest  cause  of  embar- 
rassment, and  he  repeated,  "  Yes,  that  your  Excellence 
had  begged  him  to  wait,"  as  Dorsenne  mounted  the 
stairs,  four  at  a  time,  saying  to  himself  aloud  : 

"  More  and  more  excellent !  But  this  time  this  famil- 
iarity passes  the  limit,  and  so  much  the  better.  I  shall 
show  myself  so  surprised  and  so  displeased  from  the 
very  first  that  I  shall  be  able  to  refuse  at  my  ease  the 
demands  of  such  an  inconsiderate  man."  Drawing 
himself  up  in  his  wrath,  the  novelist  armed  himself  in 


BOLESLAS   GORKA,  63 

advance  against  the  weakness  he  knew  he  felt,  and 
which  came  not  from  defective  will,  but  from  a  too  vivid 
perception  of  the  motives  and  impulses  of  those  with 
whom  he  was  in  conflict.  Once  more  he  was  about  to 
experience,  almost  before  the  door  was  opened,  that 
there  is  no  such  dissolvent  of  anger  as  curiosity.  This 
curiosity,  indeed,  was  aroused  by  a  very  simple  detail, 
which  proved  in  what  a  strange  state  the  Pole  had  been 
during  his  journey  :  his  valise,  his  overcoat,  and  his  hat 
were  lying  on  the  table  in  the  antechamber,  still  covered 
with  the  dust  of  the  train.  He  had  evidently  dropped 
down  straight  from  Warsaw  to  the  Piazza  della  Trinita 
dei  Monti.  To  what  delirium  of  passion  must  he  have 
been  the  prey  ?  Dorsenne  had  neither  the  time  to  ask 
himself  this  question,  nor  the  presence  of  mind  to 
assume  a  chilling  attitude  that  would  cut  short  the 
familiarity  of  this  strange  visitor.  At  the  sound  he 
made  in  opening  the  door  of  the  ante-room,  Boleslas 
rushed  toward  him,  and  seized  the  hands  of  the  host 
whose  room  he  had  invaded.  He  shook  them,  and 
looked  at  him  with  feverish  eyes  that  had  not  slept  for 
hours  and  hours,  and,  dragging  him  into  the  little  room, 
stammered  out : 

"  Here  you  are,  Julien,  here  you  are.  Thanks  for 
your  coming  and  answering  my  appeal  at  once.  Let 
me  look  at  you,  and  be  sure  that  I  have  a  friend  near 
me,  someone  to  believe  in,  to  talk  to,  to  lean  on.  .  .  . 
If  this  loneliness  had  continued,  I  swear,  I  should  have 
gone  mad ! " 

Although  the  lover  of  Mme.  Steno  belonged  to  that 
race  of  nervous  excitables  who  constantly  overdo  the 
expression  of  their  most  sincere  sentiments  by  a  ludi- 
crous excess  of  word  and  gesture,  yet  his  face  bore 
the  traces  of  a  trouble  that  was  too  deep  not  to  be  strik- 
ing. Julien,  who  had  seen  him  set  out,  three  months 
before,  radiant  in  almost  luminous  beauty,  was  struck 
by  seeing  him  so  changed  by  a  short  absence.  He  was 
still  the  same  Boleslas  Gorka,  the  celebrated  handsome 


64  CO«MOPOLIS. 

man,  the  marvellous  human  animal,  so  strong,  so  grace- 
ful, so  marked  by  centuries  of  aristocratic  lineage. 

The  Count  of  Gorka  belonged  to  the  old  house  of 
Lodzia,  with  which  so  many  illustrious  Polish  families, 
the  Opalenice-Opalenski,  the  Bnin-Bninski,  the  Ponin- 
Poninski,  and  so  many  others  were  connected  ;  only 
his  cheeks  were  thin  under  his  long  brown  beard  with 
its  tawny  streaks,  immense  fatigue  could  be  read  in  the 
eyelids  blackened  by  wakefulness,  in  the  folds  of  the 
wrinkled  face,  in  the  fixed  nostrils,  in  the  complexion, 
where  the  aristocratic  pallor  sank  into  muddy  spots. 
The  travel  stains  on  his  countenance  accentuated  still 
more  the  cruel  alteration.  Yet  the  natural  elegance  of 
his  physiognomy  and  figure  lent  an  air  of  grace  to  his 
weariness.  Boleslas,  in  the  vigorous,  supple  maturity  of 
thirty-seven,  realized  one  of  those  types  of  manly  beauty 
which  resist,  so  perfect  are  they,  the  hardest  trials.  Ex- 
cesses of  emotion,  like  excesses  of  profligacy,  seem  only 
to  lend  them  a  new  prestige.  In  truth,  in  this  novelist's 
room,  with  its  literary  air,  with  its  heaps  of  books,  pho- 
tographs, engravings,  pictures,  and  casts,  this  vision  of  a 
face  torn  by  the  bitter  suffering  of  passion  had  a  poetry 
to  which  Dorsenne  could  not  remain  entirely  insensible. 
The  scent  of  Russian  tobacco  impregnating  the  atmos- 
phere, and  the  blue  vapor  floating  through  the  room,  re- 
vealed the  manner  in  which  the  betrayed  lover  had 
beguiled  his  impatience,  and  an  Italo-Greek  cup  with  a 
Bacchante  jDainted  in  red  on  a  black  ground,  of  which 
Julien  was  very  proud,  held  the  remains  of  thirty  cigar- 
ettes thrown  away  almost  as  soon  as  lighted.  The  card- 
board ends  had  been  chewed  with  the  nervousness  vis- 
ible in  the  Avhole  being  of  the  young  man,  as  he  repeated, 
in  a  tone  that  made  the  listener  tremble,  so  serious  was 
it, 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  gone  mad " 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  Boleslas,  I  beg  you,"  responded 
Dorsenne.  Where  was  the  bad  temper  he  had  felt  on 
the  stairs  ?    How  keep  it  up  in  the  presence  of  a  man  so 


BOLESLAS    GORKA.  65 

clearly  beside  himself  ?  Julien  continued,  speaking-  to 
his  comiDauion  as  one  speaks  to  a  sick  child  :  "  Come,  sit 
down.  Be  a  little  less  excited,  as  I  am  here  and  you 
can  count  on  my  friendship.  Speak,  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter.  If  you  want  advice,  I  am  ready  to  g-ive  it.  If 
you  want  a  service  done,  ready  again.  .  .  .  Great 
heavens,  what  a  state  I  find  you  in  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  ?  "  replied  the  other,  with  a  kind  of  ironi- 
cal i^ride.  He  only  needed  a  spectator  of  his  sorrows 
to  display  them  with  a  secret  vanity,  real  though  they 
were.  "  You  can  see  how  I  have  suffered,"  he  went  on, 
"  but  that  is  nothing  " — pointing  to  his  face  with  a  de- 
spondent gesture — "  it  is  here  that  you  ought  to  read," 
and  he  smote  his  breast.  Then  passing  his  hands  over 
his  brow  and  eyes,  as  if  to  brush  away  a  hideous  dream, 
"  But  you  are  right,  I  must  be  calm  or  I  am  lost,"  After 
a  silence  during  which  he  appeared  to  have  collected 
his  ideas,  and  to  have  again  obtained  conscious  com- 
mand of  his  will,  for  his  voice  became  decided  and  sharp, 
he  began  :  "  You  know  that  I  am  here  unknown  to  any- 
one, even  to  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  Dorsenne.  "  I  have  just  left  the 
Countess.  We  visited  this  morning  the  Castagna  Palace 
in  company  with  her,  Hafner,  Mme.  Maitland,  Florent 
Chapron."  He  paused  a  little  and  added,  as  he  thought 
it  better  not  to  lie  on  useless  points,  "  Mme.  Steno  and 
Alba  were  there  also." 

"  And  no  one  else  ?  "  asked  Boleslas,  with  such  a  pierc- 
ing look  that  Dorsenne  had  the  utmost  difficulty  to  keep 
from  betraying  himself,  as  he  answered, 

"  No  one  else." 

The  two  men  remained  silent.  Dorsenne  had  beg-un  to 
see  by  this  disconcerting-  question,  still  more  clearly, 
what  course  would  be  taken  by  a  conversation  commen- 
cing in  such  a  fashion.  Gorka,  lying  rather  than  sitting- 
on  the  divan  in  the  little  room,  had  in  his  whole  attitude 
something  of  the  wild  beast  that,  in  a  moment,  will 
spring-.     He  had  evidently  come  to  Julien's  room,  a  i)rey 


66  COSMOPOLIS. 

to  that  madness  of  knowing  all  that  is  to  jealousy  what 
thirst  is  to  certain  tortures.  When  one  has  drunk  the 
bitter  water  of  certitude,  the  agony  will  not  be  less,  still 
the  sufferer  marches  toward  it,  with  bare  feet  on  the 
burning  pavement,  without  feeling  the  scorching  heat. 
The  motives  that  decided  Boleslas  to  choose  the  French 
novelist  in  order  to  tear  from  him  a  revelation,  were  of 
different  kinds,  and  proved  that  the  feline  character  of 
his  countenance  did  not  deceive.  He  knew  Dorsenne 
better  than  Dorsenne  suspected.  He  knew  that  he  was, 
on  one  side,  impulsive  and  rash,  and  on  the  other  perspi- 
cacious enough.  If  there  were  an  intrigue  between  Mme. 
Steno  and  Maitland,  Dorsenne  would  undoubtedly  have 
detected  it,  and,  attacked  in  a  certain  manner,  would 
undoubtedly  betray  himself.  Besides,  with  his  violent, 
cunning,  and  vain  nature  abounding  in  complexity,  Boles- 
las,  who  ardently  admired  the  author's  talent,  felt  an 
indefinable  attraction  in  exhibiting  himself  before  him 
in  the  light  of  a  frenzied  lover  with  all  his  passions  let 
loose.  He  was  one  of  the  kind  of  people  who  have 
themselves  photographed  on  their  death-beds,  such  is 
the  childish  importance  they  attach  to  their  personality 
— a  weakness  which  does  not  prevent  them  really  dying, 
and  sometimes  bravely  too.  He  would  have  been  most 
sincerely  indignant  if  the  author  of  "  Une  Eglogue  Mon- 
daine  "  had  depicted  in  living  tones  in  a  book  his  love- 
affair  with  Mme.  Steuo,  and  yet  it  had  been  with  a 
vague  desire  to  make  an  impression  that  he  made  the 
novelist's  acquaintance  and  chose  him  as  his  confidant. 
He  dreamed  of  suggesting  some  character  that  might 
resemble  him,  while  he  believed  that  he  was  simply  giv- 
ing way,  as  he  really  was  giving  way,  to  the  need  of  talk- 
ing which  suffocates  one  in  certain  moral  crises.  Yes, 
everything  was  complex  in  Gorka,  for  he  was  not  content 
with  deceiving  his  wife  by  the  profound  hypocrisy 
displayed  in  the  disgraceful  plan  of  his  intrigue — ^his 
wife,  that  noble  and  confiding  being  who  was  the  dear- 
est friend  of  the  dauchter  of  her  husband's  mistress :  he 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  67 

professed  to  regret  his  deception,  and  to  have  never 
ceased  to  entertain  for  her  an  affection  as  distressing-  as 
respectful.  It  was  true,  however.  But  one  must  be  a 
Dorsenne  to  understand  such  anomalies,  and  the  rare 
sensation  of  being  understood  in  the  most  improbable 
caprices  of  tlie  heart  attached  the  young  Count  to  the 
man  who  was,  at  the  same  time,  a  trusty  confidant,  a  pos- 
sible painter  of  such  emotions,  and  a  moral  accomplice. 
He  now  set  to  work,  a  less  easy  task,  to  make  him  his 
involuntary  detective. 

"  You  see,"  he  resumed  suddenly,  "  to  what  miserable 
details  I  have  sunk,  I,  who  have  always  had  a  horror  of 
spying  as  a  vile  degradation.  Yet,  I  am  questioning 
you,  in  this  underhand  Avay,  while  you  are  my  friend ! 
And  such  a  friend !  My  whole  life  history  lies  in  the  two 
impulses  that  I  have  been  experiencing  for  the  last  two 
minutes.  I  wanted  to  trick  you,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  it. 
Passion  seizes  me.  It  tortures  me.  No  matter  what  in- 
famy it  suggests — just  now  a  low  bit  of  cunning,  by 
and  by  a  worse  action ! — I  plunge  in,  and  then  I  am 
afraid !  yes,  I  am  afraid  of  myself.  Oh,  what  I  have  suf- 
fered !  Do  not  you  see  ?  Well,  listen  " — and  he  gazed 
on  Dorsenne  with  one  of  his  comprehensive  looks, 
where  greedy  scrutiny  does  not  let  a  gesture,  a  move- 
ment of  the  eyelid  escape  in  the  one  observed — "  and 
say  if  you  have  ever  imagined  in  one  of  your  romances 
a  situation  parallel  to  mine.  You  remember  the  mortal 
anguish  in  which  I  lived  this  winter,  with  my  brother- 
in-law  in  the  house,  and  the  continual  risk  of  his 
informing  my  poor  Maud,  either  through  stupidity, 
British  prudery,  or  dislike.  Can  one  ever  know  ?  You 
remember,  too,  my  journey  to  Poland,  and  what  those 
long  months  of  agony  cost  me !  Business  complications 
and  my  aunt's  illness,  coming  just  at  that  time  when  I 
had  got  rid  of  Ardrahan,  made  a  sad  impression.  I  always 
believed  in  presentiments.  I  felt  one  as  if  I  had  been 
at  the  gambling-table,  I  felt  there  would  be  a  run  on  the 
black.    I  was  not  wroncr.    From  the  time  I  received  the 


68  COSMOPOLIS. 

first  letter — guess  from  whom,  if  you  can — I  knew  that 
something-  was  going  on  at  Rome  that  threatened  me 
in  what  was  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world,  the  love  to 
which  I  have  sacrificed  everything,  to  which  I  trampled 
my  way  over  the  noblest  heart.  Was  Catherine  about 
to  cease  to  love  me  ?  When  one  has  given  two  years  of 
life  to  a  passion — and  what  years ! — it  becomes  involved 
in  fibres  that  lie  cruelly  deep !  I  will  spare  you  the 
account  of  the  past  week,  spent  running  here  and  there, 
visiting  relatives,  talking  to  lawyers,  nursing  my  sick 
aunt,  doing  my  best  for  my  son  since  half  of  the  fort- 
\ine  will  come  to  him.  Yet,  always,  always  the  fixed 
idea  !  She  does  not  write  as  she  used  to  do,  she  loves 
me  no  longer  !  Ah,  if  I  could  show  her  letters  during 
my  other  periods  of  absence !  You  have  lots  ;of  talent, 
Julien,  you  could  never  have  written  better  ones  ! " 

He  was  silent,  as  if  the  part  of  his  confession  he  was 
approaching  cost  him  a  great  effort,  and  Dorsenne,  in 
his  turn,  said : 

"  A  change  of  tone  in  a  correspondence  does  not  suf- 
ficiently explain  the  fever  which  you  are  in " 

"  No,"  replied  Gorka,  "  it  was  not  a  mere  change  of 
tone.  I  complained.  For  the  first  time  my  complaints 
found  no  echo.  I  threatened  to  stop  writing.  She 
made  no  reply.  I  wrote  to  beg  pardon.  What  cow- 
ards men  are !  I  received  such  a  cold  letter  that  in 
turn  I  wrote  one  to  break  off  our  connection.  Another 
silence.  Oh,  you  will  understand  now  what  a  terrible 
effect  was  produced  on  me  in  such  trouble  by  another 
letter,  not  signed,  that  I  received  a  fortnight  ago.  It 
came  one  morning,  with  no  other.  It  bore  the  stamp  of 
Rome.  I  did  not  recognize  the  handwriting.  I  opened 
it.  I  saw  two  sheets  of  paper  on  which  were  pasted 
some  printed  words  cut  out  of  a  French  newspaper, 
I  repeat,  without  signature.  It  was  an  anonymous  let- 
ter.    ..." 

"  And  you  read  it  ?  "  interrupted  Dorsenne.  "  What 
madness ! " 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  69 

"  And  I  read  it,"  replied  the  Count.  "  It  began  with 
a  terribly  exact  account  of  my  own  situation.  That  the 
stories  of  our  lives  are  known  to  others,  we  ought  to 
know,  since  we  know  theirs.  We  ought  consequently  to 
think  that  we  are  exposed  as  a  prey  to  their  savage 
malice  as  they  are  to  ours.  It  was  bitter  all  the  same, 
to  have  proof  of  it.  But  what  rendered  the  accuracy  of 
this  first  letter  really  infernal,  was  that  it  was  a  guar- 
antee of  the  accuracy  of  the  next  one.  And  the  last 
was  a  detailed,  minute,  pitiless  account  of  an  intrigue 
that  Mme.  Steno  had  cherished  during  my  absence — 
and  with  whom  ?  With  the  man  I  had  always  most  dis- 
trusted, this  dauber  of  colors,  who  wanted  once  to  make 
a  portrait  of  Alba — that  time  I  stopped  him — much 
good  it  has  done  me !  This  blackguard,  who  sank  low 
enough  to  make  this  shameful  marriage  for  money ;  the 
fellow  who  calls  himself  an  artist;  that  American, 
picked  up  at  a  restaurant,  that  Lincoln  Maitland.    .    .  " 

Although  the  childish  bitter  hatred  of  the  jealous — 
that  hate  which  degrades  us  by  depreciating  the  one 
who  is  preferred  to  us — had  poisoned  the  heart  of 
Gorka  with  its  bitter  waters,  as  it  poisoned  the  end  of 
his  discourse,  he  had  never  ceased  for  an  instant  from 
watching  Dorsenne.  He  half  raised  himself  on  the  di- 
van, and,  leaning  on  his  clenched  fists,  he  thrust  forward 
his  head,  as  he  uttered  the  name  of  his  rival,  as  if  to  en- 
wi*ap  Dorsenne  in  his  gaze.  The  latter,  fortunately,  was 
seized  with  indignation  at  the  news  of  the  anonymous 
letter,  and  repeated  with  an  astonished  accent  from 
which  his  visitor  could  divine  nothing : 

"  Wliat  infamy  !    Why,  what  infamy !  " 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Boleslas ;  "  this  was  only  a  begin- 
ning. Next  day  I  received  another  letter,  written  and 
sent  in  a  similar  way ;  next  day  after,  a  third.  I  have  a 
dozen  of  them,  do  you  hear  1 — a  dozen — in  my  pocket- 
book,  all  composed  with  the  same  atrocious  knowledge 
of  the  society  we  live  in  that  drove  me  crazy  at  first. 
Think  what  a  torture!    I  received,  at  the  same  time, 


70  COSMOPOLIS. 

letters  from  my  poor  wife,  and  everything-  in  her  whole 
sad  correspondence  agreed  with  terrible  truth.  The 
anonymous  letter  said:  'To-day  they  had  a  meeting* 
from  two  to  four ; '  and  Maud  wrote  to  me :  '  I  could 
not  go  out  to-day  with  Mme.  Steno  as  we  had  agreed, 
for  she  was  indisposed.'  And  this  portrait  of  Alba,  which 
was  announced  as  in  progress.  The  anonymous  letters 
told  all  the  incidents  connected  with  it,  the  prolonged 
sittings,  those  convenient  sitting's,  while  my  wife  wrote : 
'  We  went  over  to  see  Alba's  portrait,  yesterday.  The 
painter  has  rubbed  out  what  he  had  done.'  At  last  I 
could  hold  in  no  longer.  The  anonymous  letters,  with 
their  abominable  precision  of  detail,  gave  even  the  ad- 
dress of  their  place  of  meeting !  I  set  out.  I  said  to 
myself,  '  If  I  tell  my  wife  that  I  am  about  to  return, 
they  will  know  of  it ;  they  will  escape  me.'  I  wanted  to 
surprise  them.  I  wanted — how  do  I  know  what  I 
wanted  ? — I  wanted  to  suffer  no  longer  this  agony  of 
incertitude.  I  took  the  train.  I  did  not  stop  day  or 
night.  I  left  my  valet  at  Florence.  This  morning  I 
reached  Kome.  My  plan  was  formed  on  the  journey. 
I  would  take  a  room  opposite  theirs,  in  the  same  street, 
or  in  the  same  house,  perhaps.  I  would  play  the  spy,  one 
day,  two  days,  a  week.  And  then — would  you  believe 
it  ?  In  the  hack  that  was  bringing  me  to  this  street,  I 
suddenly  saw  myself  clearly  and  was  afraid.  I  had  my 
hand  on  the  butt  of  my  revolver."  And  he  drew  out  the 
weapon  and  flung  it  on  the  divan,  as  if  he  wished  to 
repel  a  new  temptation.  "  I  saw  myself  as  clearly  as  I 
see  you,  killing  these  two  creatures  if  I  surprised  them, 
like  two  beasts.  At  the  same  time  I  saw  my  son  and  my 
wife.  Between  murder  and  me,  there  was,  perhaps,  just 
the  distance  between  this  street  and  that  other.  I  felt 
that  I  must  flee  at  once — flee  from  that  street — flee  from 
those  criminals,  if  they  really  are  such ;  flee  from  my- 
self !  Your  name  crossed  my  mind,  and  I  am  here,  cry- 
ing, 'My  friend,  look  at  my  condition;  I  am  drowning; 
I  am  lost ;  save  me.'  " 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  71 

"  You  have  found  safety,"  replied  Dorsenne,  "  in  your 
son  and  your  wife.  First  of  all  g-o  and  see  them,  and  if 
I  cannot  promise  you  release  from  suffering',  you  will 
be  no  more  tempted  by  this  terrible  thought."  He 
pointed  to  the  pistol  which  lay  shining  in  a  sunbeam 
that  flashed  through  the  window.  Then,  as  the  genuine 
pity  aroused  by  Boleslas's  tale  did  not  extinguish  the 
author's  instinct,  any  more  than  emotion  had  extin- 
guished in  the  other  speaker  his  cunning  and  vanity,  he 
added :  "  You  will  retain  this  idea  the  less  when  you 
verify  de  visu  the  work  of  these  anonymous  letters. 
Twelve  letters  in  fifteen  days,  formed  in  such  a  manner, 
by  cuttings  out  from  so  many  newspapers  ?  And  people 
say  we  invent  dirty  tricks  in  our  books  !  If  you  like,  we 
can  seek  together  who  can  have  devised  this  pretty  little 
villainy — Judas,  Eodin,  lago,  or  laga  ? — But  this  is  no 
time  for  guessing.  Are  you  sure  of  your  valet  ?  Yes, 
since  you  brought  him  back.  Send  him  a  letter,  and  in 
that  letter  another  letter  addressed  to  Mme.  Gorka,  that 
your  man  will  mail  at  once  !  You  announce  your  arrival 
to-morrow,  with  an  allusion  to  a  letter  from  Warsaw, 
which  will  have  been  lost.  You  take  the  train  this  even- 
ing for  Florence,  and  leave  again  to-night.  You  will  be 
at  Rome  again  to-morrow  morning,  and  openly.  You 
will  then  have  avoided,  not  this  misfortune  of  being  a 
murderer,  for  you  would  not  have  caught  them,  I  am 
sure,  but  a  much  graver  one  for  a  man  of  your  heart 
and  troubles,  that  of  arousing  the  suspicions  of  Mme. 
Gorka.  Do  you  promise  1 "  Dorsenne  rose  to  get  a  pen 
and  some  paper.  "  Come,  write  your  letter  at  once,  and 
thank  your  good  genius  that  has  led  you  to  a  friend 
whose  business  is  to  devise  methods  of  solving  insolu- 
ble problems." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Boleslas,  after  taking  the  pen 
which  the  other  held  out ;  "  here  is  safety,  here  is  pru- 
dence." Then,  casting  aside  the  pen  as  he  had  the  re- 
volvei*:  "I  cannot.  No,  I  cannot,  as  long  as  I  have  this 
doubt.   Ah,  it  is  too  dreadful !   I  see  them  too  well !   You 


72  COSMOPOLIS. 

talk  of  my  wife.  But  you  forget  she  loves  me.  At  her 
first  glance  she  will  read  me  as  you  read  me.  You  do 
not  take  account  of  the  efforts  required  for  two  years  not 
to  arouse  her  suspicions.  I  was  happy,  and  it  is  easy  to 
deceive  when  one  has  nothing  to  conceal  but  happiness. 
To-day,  we  would  not  be  five  minutes  together  before 
she  would  suspect,  before  she  would  seek — and  find. 
No,  no.  I  cannot.  Something  else — I  must  find  some- 
thing else.     .     .     ." 

"  But,  miserable  man,"  replied  Julien,  "  I  cannot  give 
you  this  '  something  else.'  No  opium  will  lull  to  sleep 
doubts  like  those  which  these  terrible  anonymous  let- 
ters have  instilled  into  you.  You  cannot  take  hypoder- 
mic injections  of  confidence,  as  you  can  of  morphine! 
What  I  know  is,  that  if  you  do  not  follow  my  advice, 
Mme.  Gorka  will  have,  not  suspicion,  but  certainty.  It  is 
already  too  late,  perhaps.  AVell,  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
have  kept  from  you  as  I  saw  you  in  such  trouble.  You 
did  not  waste  much  time  in  coming  here  from  the  sta- 
tion, and  probably  never  looked  twice  out  of  the  window 
of  the  hack.  Well,  you  were  seen.  By  whom  ?  Mont- 
fa  non.  He  told  me  so  this  morning  at  the  door  of  the 
Castagna  Palace.  If  I  had  not  learned  from  a  remark 
of  your  wife  that  she  was  ignorant  of  your  presence 
in  Rome,  I  myself,  do  you  understand,  I  might  have 
given  her  the  information.  Consider  your  situation 
now ! " 

He  spoke  with  unfeigned  emotion,  so  troubled  was 
he  by  the  evident  danger  that  lay  in  Gorka's  obstinacy. 
The  latter  had  begun  to  gather  himself  together  as  if  to 
spring ;  he  had  a  strange  gleam  in  his  yellow  eyes.  The 
nervousness  of  Dorsenne  doubtless  marked  the  moment 
he  was  waiting  for  to  strike  a  decisive  blow.  He  rose 
with  such  an  abrupt  movement  that  Dorsenne  recoiled. 
He  seized  his  hands,  as  he  had  before,  but  with  such 
force  that  not  a  quiver  of  the  man  he  grasped  so  firmly 
could  escape  him. 

"  Yes,  Julien,  you  have  a  means  of  relieving  me,  you 


BOLESLAS   GORKA.  73 

have,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  excess  of  anxiety  rendered 
hoarse. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  author. 

"  What  is  it !  You  are  an  honest  fellow,  Dorsenne. 
You  are  a  great  artist.  You  are  my  friend — a  friend 
bound  to  me  by  a  sacred  bond,  almost  a  brother  in  arms, 
you,  the  kinsman  of  a  hero  who  shed  his  blood  by  my 
grandfather's  side  at  Somo-Sierra !  Give  me  your  word 
of  honor  that  you  are  absolutely  certain  that  Mme.  Steno 
is  not  the  mistress  of  Maitland,  that  you  never  thought 
so,  never  heard  so — and  I  will  believe  you  and  obey  you. 
Come  on,"  he  continued,  pressing  the  novelist's  hand 
still  more  fervently.     "  You  see  you  hesitate  ! " 

"  No,"  said  Julien,  freeing  himself  from  this  frenzied 
grasp.  "  I  do  not  hesitate.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  When 
I  shall  have  given  you  my  word,  will  it  have  five  min- 
utes value  to  you  ?  Will  you  not  at  once  conclude  that 
I  perjured  myself  to  prevent  a  crime  ?  " 

"  You  hesitate ! "  Boleslas  exclaimed,  repeating  the 
words  twice  more,  and  then,  with  a  burst  of  terrible 
laughter,  such  shuddering  ferocity  was  in  it :  "  It  is 
true,  then !  Besides,  I  like  it  better  so  !  It  is  horrible 
to  know,  but  one  suffers  less.  To  know !  As  if  I  did 
not  know  that  she  had  lovers  before  me,  as  if  it  was  not 
written  in  every  line  of  Alba's  face  that  she  is  the  daugh- 
ter of  Werekiew  ;  as  if  I  had  not  heard  a  score  of  times 
before  knowing  her  that  she  had  had  Branciforte,  San- 
Giobbe,  Strabane — a  dozen  others.  Before,  during,  or 
after,  what  does  it  matter  ?  I  was  sure  when  I  knocked 
at  you,  the  very  gate  of  honor,  I  should  get  the  truth, 
should  touch  it  as  I  touch  this  thing,"  and  he  seized  a 
marble  head  on  the  table  and  fingered  it  furiously. 
"  You  see  I  bear  the  truth  like  a  man.  You  can  speak 
to  me  now.  Wlio  knows  ?  Disgust  is  a  great  de- 
stroyer of  passions.  Go  on — I  am  listening.  Do  not 
spare  me." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Gorka,"  replied  Dorsenne ;  "  what 
I  said  was  said  in  all  simplicity.  I  was — I  am  persuaded 


74  COSMOPOLIS. 

that  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  say  an  hour,  say  to-mor- 
row, say  the  day  after  to-morrow,  you  will  consider  me 
a  liar  or  a  fool.  But  since  you  misinterpret  my  silence, 
my  duty  is  to  speak,  and  I  do  speak.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  I  had  never  had  the  slightest  idea  of 
an  intrigue  between  Mme.  Steno  and  Maitland,  nor  of 
any  change  in  their  relations  during  your  absence.  I 
give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  no  one,  mark  me ! — no 
one  has  spoken  of  such  a  thing  before  me.  And  now, 
act  as  you  like,  think  as  you  like.  I  have  said  all  that 
I  can  say." 

Dorsenne  pronounced  these  words  with  a  feverish 
energy  caused  by  the  horrible  constraint  he  put  on 
his  conscience.  But  the  laughter  of  Gorka  had  ter- 
rified him  all  the  more,  because  at  that  very  instant  his 
free  hand,  voluntarily  or  not,  had  stretched  toward  the 
weapon  which  lay  glittering  on  the  sofa.  A  new  vision 
of  an  approaching  immediate  catastrophe,  this  time  in- 
evitable, possessed  Julien.  His  lips  had  spoken,  as  his 
arm  had  been  extended  by  an  irresistible  instinct  of  sav- 
ing several  human  lives,  and  he  had  taken  his  false  oath, 
the  first,  and  doubtless  the  last  of  his  life,  without  more 
reflection.  No  sooner  had  he  taken  it  than  he  had  such 
a  fit  of  internal  anger  that  he  would  almost  have  pre- 
ferred, at  the  moment,  not  to  have  been  believed.  It 
would  have  been  a  consolation  for  him  if  his  dreaded 
visitor  had  answered  him  by  one  of  those  insolent  de- 
nials that  allow  a  man  to  slap  another  in  the  face,  so 
great  was  his  irritation  at  having  his  word  of  honor 
thus  violently  extorted  from  him.  He  saw,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  face  of  Mme.  Steno's  lover  turned  toward  him 
with  an  ineff'able  expression  of  gratitude.  Boleslas's 
lips  trembled,  his  hands  clasped  together,  two  large 
tears  sprang  from  his  burning  eyes  and  streamed  over 
his  deep-lined  cheeks.  Then,  when  he  was  able  to 
speak,  he  groaned  out : 

"What  good  you  have  done  me,  my  friend!  From 
what   a  nightmare  have  you  rescued  me!    Now  I  am 


DANGER  NIGII.  78 

saved !  I  believe  you,  I  believe  you.  Yes,  you  are  inti- 
mate with  them.  You  see  them  nearly  every  day.  You 
would  know  if  there  were  anything"  between  them !  You 
would  have  heard  it  mentioned !  Oh,  thanks !  Give  me 
your  hand — let  me — let  me  thank  you.  Forget  what  I 
have  just  said,  all  the  slanders  that  I  repeated  in  this  fit 
of  madness.  I  know  they  are  baseless !  And  now  let  me 
embrace  you  as  I  would  have  done  had  I  really  been 
drowning-,  and  you  had  rescued  me  from  the  waves. 
Oh,  my  friend,  my  only  friend  !  " 

He  rushed  forward  to  press  the  novelist  to  his  breast, 
while  the  latter  repeated  the  opening-  words  of  their 
conversation:  "  Be  calm,  I  beg  you,  be  calm,"  and  re- 
peated to  himself,  brave  and  loyal  to  excess  as  he  was, 
"  I  could  not  have  acted  otherwise,  but  it  is  hard ! " 


IV. 

DANGER  NIGH. 

"No,  I  could  not  have  done  otherwise,"  said  Dor- 
senne  to  himself,  once  more,  on  the  evening  of  this  ter- 
rible day.  He  had  wasted  all  the  afternoon  in  looking 
after  Gorka — he  had  made  him  eat,  he  had  made  him  lie 
down,  he  had  watched  over  him,  he  had  taken  him  in  a 
close  carriage  to  the  depot  at  Portinaccio,  the  first  sta- 
tion on  the  line  to  Florence.  He  had  taken  all  possible 
pains  not  to  leave  alone  for  a  single  minute  the  man 
whose  frenzy  he  had  rendered  intermittent,  rather  than 
cured,  at  the  price,  alas !  of  his  own  quiet.  For  as  soon 
as  he  had  returned  to  the  solitude  of  his  own  room  in 
the  Piazza  della  Trinita,  where  the  presence  of  this  late 
visitor  was  revealed  by  a  score  of  little  details,  than  the 
weight  of  his  false  word  of  honor  began  to  press  heav- 
ily on  him,  all  the  more  that  he  could  at  last  follow  the 
calculated  plan  adopted  by  Boleslas.    His  penetration, 


76  COSMOPOLIS. 

which  as  usual  with  him  came  too  late,  enabled  him  to 
trace  the  general  course  of  their  conversation.  He  saw 
that  not  one  single  word,  not  even  the  most  excited,  ut- 
tered by  the  speaker,  had  been  spoken  by  chance.  From 
reply  to  reply,  from  confession  to  confession,  he,  Dor- 
senne,  had  been  driven  into  this  cruel  dilemma  which 
he  could  neither  foresee  nor  avoid.  He  would  have 
either  to  accuse  a  woman,  or  tell  one  of  those  lies  for 
which  a  virile  conscience  cannot  pardon  itself.  And  he 
did  not  pardon  himself. 

"  It  is  all  the  more  distressing,"  he  reflected,  "  that 
it  will  stop  nothing.  From  the  instant  that  there  exists 
in  this  world  a  person  so  vile  as  to  have  written  those 
anonymous  letters,  that  jjerson  will  not  stop  here. 
Some  means  to  let  loose  this  madman  anew  will  be 
found.  But  were  those  letters  really  written  ?  Gorka 
combines  lucidity  and  craft  with  his  madness,  and  he  is 
quite  capable  of  forging  this  black  romance  out  of  his 
own  head,  just  to  have  the  power  of  putting  to  me  the 
question  he  did  put.  And  yet^ — ^no.  Two  facts  are  be- 
yond dispute  —  his  exasperated  jealousy  and  his  ex- 
traordinary return.  Both  presuppose  a  third  fact, 
namely,  a  warning.  Given  by  whom  ?  Let  us  take  Gor- 
ka's  side.  He  spoke  of  a  dozen  letters.  Say  he  has 
received  one  or  two.  But  who  is  the  author  of  this 
one  or  two  ?  " 

The  whole  immediate  development  of  the  drama  in 
which  Julien  was  involved  depended  on  the  answer  to 
this  question.  It  was  not  easy  to  put  into  terms.  The 
Italians  have  a  proverb  of  remarkable  significance,  and 
he  had  often  laughed  when  he  had  heard  it  quoted  by 
his  sententious  host,  Egisto  Brancadori.  He  repeated 
it  to  himself  and  saw  the  full  bearing  of  it.  Chi  non  sa 
fingersi  amico,  non  sa  essere  nemico.  "  The  man  who  can- 
not pretend  to  be  a  friend,  cannot  be  an  enemy."  In  the 
little  corner  of  society  in  which  Mme.  Steno,  the  Gor- 
kas,  and  Lincoln  Maitland  moved,  who  was  so  filled 
with  hypocrisy   and  hate  as  to  follow  this  counsel  ? 


DANGER   NIGH.  77 

Nothing  but  precise  information,  supported  by  posi- 
tive facts,  could  have  touched  Boleslas's  jealousy  to  the 
quick,  and  such  information  presupposed  daily  inter- 
course. 

"It  cannot  be  that  Mme.  Steno,"  thought  Julien, 
"  has  amused  herself  in  telling-  the  whole  story  to  her 
lover,  for  the  sake  of  experiencing  more  emotions  ?  I 
have  known  such  cases.  But  then  it  was  the  case  of 
crazy  Parisiennes,  not  of  such  a  magnificent  amourous 
force  as  this  Dogaressa  of  the  sixteenth  century,  found 
intact  in  the  Venice  of  our  day  like  a  sequin  of  the  period, 
with  its  stamp  still  sharp.  Let  us  set  her  aside.  Let  us 
set  aside,  too,  Mme.  Gorka,  that  soul  of  truth,  who  would 
not  stoop  to  the  least  falsehood  for  a  bibelot  she  ad- 
mired. Besides,  it  is  this  quality  that  renders  her  so 
easily  deceived.  What  irony !  Let  us  set  aside  Flo- 
rent.  He  would  let  himself  be  killed  like  a  Mameluke 
at  the  chamber-door  where  his  fascinating  brother-in- 
law  was  flirting  with  the  Countess.  Let  us  set  aside  the 
American,  himself.  Yet  I  have  known  a  case, — a  lover 
tired  of  a  mistress  and  denouncing  himself  in  the 
proper  quarter,  to  get  rid  of  his  hard  labor  of  love. 
But  these  were  roues,  who  had  nothing  in  common 
with  this  lout,  who  has  a  talent  for  painting,  as  ele- 
phants have  a  trunk — a  marvellous  tool  stuck  on  a 
shapeless  mass.  What  irony  again !  He  could  make 
himself  marry  this  octoroon  to  get  some  money — a  dis- 
gusting business  to  begin  with — but  it  was  a  base  act 
committed  once  for  all,  which  saved  him  from  pecuni- 
ary troubles,  and  gave  him  opportunity  to  paint  what 
he  liked  and  as  he  liked.  He  let  himself  be  loved  by 
Mme.  Steno,  because  she  is  devilishly  beautiful  in  spite 
of  her  forty  years,  and  because  she  is  a  great  lady  after 
all,  and  filched  by  him  from  a  great  noble.  That  flat- 
ters his  vanity.  He  has  not  a  dollar's  worth  of  moral 
delicacy  in  his  heart.  Nor  has  he  the  roue's  finesse. 
Let  us  set  aside  his  wife,  too.  She  is  a  genuine  slave, 
whom  the  very  sight  of  a  white  annihilates  to  such  a 


78  COSMOPOLIS. 

degree  that  she  dare  not  even  look  at  her  husband. 
Nor  is  it  Hafner.  The  sly  fox  is  capable  of  everything- 
in  finesse,  even  of  a  good  action.  But  of  a  useless  and 
dangerous  bit  of  trickery — never!  Fanny  is  a  saint, 
escaped  all  alive  from  the  Golden  Legend,  whatever 
Montfanon  thinks  of  her.  Irony  again !  I  have,  I 
think,  passed  in  review  the  circle  of  all  our  intimates, 
I  was  going  to  forget  Alba,  That  is  too  wild  to  think  of 
—too  wild?    Why?" 

Dorsenne  was  just  getting  into  bed  as  he  put  this 
question.  He  took,  as  was  his  habit,  one  of  the  books 
lying  ready  on  the  table,  to  read  while  he  was  in  bed. 
He  had  within  reach  of  his  hand  the  works  in  which 
he  sought  to  temper  his  dogma  of  uncompromising  intel- 
lectuality, the  "  Memoirs  "  of  Goethe,  the  "  Correspond- 
ence of  George  Sand,"  in  which  the  letters  to  Flaubert 
occur,  Descartes'  "Discourse  on  Method,"  and  Burck- 
hardt's  "  Essay  on  the  Benaissance,"  With  his  elbow  on 
the  pillow,  he  turned  over  a  few  pages,  and  closed  the 
volume  without  having  read  twenty  lines.  He  put  out  the 
light,  and  could  not  sleep.  The  strange  suspicion  that 
had  flashed  through  his  mind  was  almost  monstrous, 
thus  gratuitously  applied  to  a  young  girl.  Such  a 
suspicion  and  such  a  girl!  The  girl  who  had  been 
his  chosen  friend  all  the  winter,  for  whom  he  was 
prolonging  his  stay  in  Rome  because  she  was  the  most 
gracious  union  of  delicacy  and  melancholy  in  that 
frame  of  a  tragic  and  sombre  past !  Anyone  but  Dor- 
senne would  never  have  conceived  such  an  idea,  even  for 
a  second,  without  shuddering  at  himseK,  He,  on  the 
contrary,  set  to  work  at  once  to  examine  the  sinister 
hypothesis,  to  work  it  out,  to  prove  it.  No  one  sufltered 
as  he  did  from  the  moral  perversion  which  the  abuse 
of  a  certain  kind  of  literary  labor  inflicts  on  certain 
writers.  They  are  so  accustomed  to  combine  artificial 
characters  in  the  creation  of  their  fancy,  that  they 
end  in  accomplishing  a  similar  task  in  reference  to  the 
friends  they  know  the  best.     They  have  a  friend  who  is 


DANGER  NIGTT.  79 

dear  to  them,  whom  they  see  nearly  every  day,  who  con- 
ceals nothing-  from  them,  from  whom  they  conceal  noth- 
ing. A  year  afterwards,  when  they  speak  of  him,  you 
are  surprised  to  observe  that,  while  they  continue  to 
love  him,  they  sketch  for  you  two  contradictory  por- 
traits of  him,  with  the  same  sincerity  and  the  same 
probability.  They  have  a  mistress,  and  the  woman  sees 
with  alarm  how,  in  the  space  of  a  single  day,  they  as- 
sume a  changed  attitude  toward  her,  although  she  is 
conscious  of  no  change  in  herself.  The  truth  is,  they 
have,  in  an  intensely  developed  degree,  the  imaginative 
power,  and  their  observation  only  forms  a  pretext  for 
creation.  This  morbid  weakness  had  dominated  Julien's 
life  since  his  first  youth.  It  was  rarely  manifested  in  a 
more  unexpected  manner  than  in  reference  to  the  charm- 
ing Alba  Steno,  who  perhaps  was  dreaming  of  him  at 
the  very  instant  when,  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  night, 
he  was  striving  to  prove  her  capable  of  this  species  of 
epistolary  parricide. 

"  After  all,"  he  repeated,  not  without  a  feeling  of  satis- 
faction—for these  men  whose  intellectuality  is  excessive 
are  somewhat  iconoclastic  and  love  to  destroy  their 
dearest  moral  or  sentimental  idols,  as  if  to  prove  their 
own  superiority, — "  after  all,  do  I  rearlly  know  the  rela- 
tion in  which  she  stands  to  her  mother  ?  When  I  ar- 
rived in  Rome  in  November,  and  had  been  presented  to 
the  Countess,  what  did  I  hear,  not  from  one  person,  but 
from  nine  or  ten  ?  That  Mme.  Steno  had  a  liaison  with 
the  husband  of  her  daughter's  dearest  friend,  and  that 
the  girl  was  dying  of  grief  at  it.  She  was  sad  that 
evening.  I  saw  that  her  countenance  was  such  as  it 
might  be  under  the  circumstances,  and  I  had  the  curios- 
ity to  read  her  heart.  That  is  six  long  months  ago. 
We  have  met  nearly  every  day  since,  often  twice  a  day. 
She  shuts  herself  up  so  hermetically  close,  that  I  am 
only  a  little  more  advanced  than  on  the  first  day.  I 
have  seen  her  look  at  her  mother,  for  instance,  this 
morning,  with  her  eyes  filled  with  love  and  admiration. 


80  COSMOPOLIS. 

And  I  have  seen  her  suffer  till  she  grew  pale,  at  a 
word  or  at  an  attitude  of  her  mother.  I  have  seen  her 
embrace  Maud  Gorka  as  one  embraces  a  friend  for 
whom  one  has  a  profound  pity,  and  I  have  seen  her 
play  at  tennis  with  this  friend,  with  childish  g-ayety.  I 
have  seen  that  she  could  not  bear  the  presence  of  Mait- 
land  in  a  room,  and  then  it  was  she  herself  who  asked 
to  have  the  American  paint  her  portrait !  Is.she  an  in- 
nocent, or  a  hypocrite  ?  Or  is  she  tormented  by  doubt, 
guessing  and  not  guessing,  believing  in  her  mother,  and 
not  believing  ?  In  any  case  can  there  be  any  mystery  in 
her  with  her  eyes  of  liquid  blue  ?  Has  she  the  hybrid 
soul  at  once  of  the  Russian  and  Italian  1  It  would  be  a 
solution  of  the  problem  to  suppose  her  a  girl  of  extraor- 
dinarily concealed  energy,  who,  knowing  her  mother's 
two  intrigues,  and  detesting  them  equally,  had  the  idea 
of  setting  the  two  men  at  each  other.  Still  for  a  young 
girl  such  an  action  would  be  an  enormity.  Well !  Is 
not  enormity  the  daily  bread  of  passion?  Does  not 
every  column  of  gossip  in  a  newspaper  show  us  that 
the  word  '  impossible '  ought  never  to  be  uttered 
when  the  question  concerns  the  aberrations  of  the 
heart  ?  I  will  call  on  the  Countess  to-morrow  even- 
ing, and  will  amuse  myself  by  cross-examining  Alba,  to 
see.  ...  If  she  is  innocent,  my  game  will  be  harm- 
less. If,  perchance,  she  be  not  so  ?  It  would  be  a — 
what  a  pity — to  say  more  before  a  picture  of  the  Ma- 
donna.   I've  said  enough." 

It  is  all  very  well  to  profess  to  one's  own  heart  a 
complacent  dandyism  of  misanthropy  ;  still  such  reflec- 
tions leave  behind  them  a  bitter  aftertaste  of  remorse, 
especially  when,  like  those  of  Dorsenne's,  they  are  abso- 
lutely imaginary  and  founded  on  mere  literary  para- 
dox. In  all  cases  one  feels  that  this  impression  of 
calumny  is  hateful  to  every  man  who  has  suffered  from 
it,  either  in  himself,  or  in  the  person  of  a  friend.  Cer- 
tain suspicions  are  too  inhuman  even  when  they  are 
still   in  the  state  of  vague  and  floating  hypothesis, 


DANGER   NIGH.  81 

and  consequently  Dorsenne  experienced  a  deep  sense 
of  shame  wlien  he  awoke  next  morning,  and,  as  he 
thought  about  the  anonymous  letters  received  by 
Gorka,  called  to  mind  the  criminal  romance  he  had 
constructed  around  the  charming-  and  tender  visage 
of  the  young  girl.  Luckily  for  his  nerves  which  were 
exasperated  by  discussing  the  hard  problem,  "  If  no 
one  in  the  society  of  the  Countess  wrote  these  letters, 
who  did  I  "  he  received,  as  he  sprang  out  of  bed,  a  big 
package  of  "  proofs  "  marked  "  In  haste."  He  was  pre- 
paring to  publish  as  a  kind  of  study  of  his  career,  a 
collection  of  his  early  articles  scattered  among  some 
twenty-five  newspapers,  under  a  title  with  which  he 
was  enchanted,  Poussih'e  d'idees.  Dorsenne  was  an  in- 
defatigable workman,  in  spite  of  his  fancy  for  such 
titles,  which  is  rare,  and  in  spite  of  the  distractions  of 
his  life  in  society,  which  is  still  more  rare.  Usually 
elaborate  tickets  serve,  in  a  book-store,  to  conceal  slop- 
made  goods,  and  novelists  and  dramatists  who  pique 
themselves  on  seeing  life  in  order  to  write,  and  who 
seek  inspiration  from  other  sources  than  regular  habits 
and  their  writing-table,  find  their  works  smitten  with 
sterility  in  advance.  Obscure  or  famous,  rich  or  poor, 
an  artist  must  be  first  of  all  an  artisan,  and  practice  the 
artisan's  fruitful  virtues,  patient  application,  conscien- 
tious technique,  modest  absorption  in  his  task.  Dor- 
senne, when  he  sat  down  to  his  "  bench  " — for  he  desig- 
nated his  desk  by  this  carpenter's  term — ^was  entirely 
wrapped  up  in  his  work.  He  closed  his  door,  he  opened 
neither  letters  nor  telegrams,  and  spent  ten  hours  of 
grind  without  taking  anything  but  two  eggs  and  a  cup 
of  black  coffee,  as  he  was  doing  to-day,  remoulding  the 
essays  of  his  twenty-fifth  year  with  the  talent  of  thirty- 
five,  retouching  a  word  here,  a  phrase  there,  sometimes 
rewriting  a  whole  page,  here  discontented,  there  smil- 
ing at  the  idea.  His  pen  went  on  and  carried  with  it 
all  the  sensitiveness  of  this  intellectual  monster  who 
forgot  utterly  Mme.  Steno,  Gorka,  Maitland,  and  the 


82  COSMOPOLIS. 

caluminated  Contessina,  till  he  awoke  from  his  clear- 
thinking  intoxication  as  nig-ht  was  falling.  Then  he 
counted  and  arranged  the  galley  slips,  and,  adding  up 
the  series  of  articles,  noticed  that  they  were  twelve  in 
number. 

"  Like  Gorka's  letters,"  he  said  aloud,  laughingly. 
He  felt  his  veins  pulsing  with  the  light  exultation  that 
all  genuine  writers  know  when  they  have  labored  at 
a  work  which  they  believe  to  be  good.  "  I  have  earned 
my  evening,"  he  added,  still  aloud ;  "  I  must  dress  and 
call  on  Mme.  Steno.  A  good  dinner  at  the  Doctor's. 
A  good  half-hour's  walk  on  a  good  road.  The  night 
promises  to  be  divine.  I  shall  know  if  they  have  news 
of  the  Palatine" — the  nickname  he  gave  to  Gorka  in 
his  facetious  fits,  "  and  I  will  amuse  myself  by  imitating 
my  patron,  Hamlet,  when  he  set  his  '  springe  to  catch 
woodcocks,'  before  his  uncle.  I  will  talk  about  anony- 
mous letters.  If  the  author  of  those  sent  to  Boleslas  is 
there,  I  shall  be  in  the  front  rows  of  the  orchestra,  to 
have  a  good  view.  Provided  it  is  not  Alba.  Deci- 
dedly, the — what  a  pity ! — it  would  be  too  sad." 

The  young  man  carried  out  his  programme  faithfully, 
and  at  ten  o'clock  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  great  house 
which  Mme.  Steno  occupied  in  the  Via  Venti  Settem- 
bre,  opposite  the  Via  della  Porta  Salara.  It  was  a  huge 
modern  building  in  two  distinct  portions,  a  rented-out 
building  to  the  left,  and  on  the  right  a  house  in  the  style 
of  those  that  swarm  about  the  Pare  Monceau.  The 
"  Villa  Steno,"  as  the  gilt  inscription  on  the  black  mar- 
ble of  the  gate  called  it — told  the  entire  story  of  the 
Countess's  fortune — a  fortune  estimated  with  the  usual 
exaggeration  by  common  report,  at  twenty  or  thirty 
millions  of  francs.  Beally  she  had  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  a  year.  Considering  that  the 
Count  Michel  Steno,  her  husband,  when  he  died  in  1873, 
left  nothing  but  debts,  a  tumble-down  palace  at  Venice, 
and  a  lot  of  property  with  titles  as  bad  as  the  mort- 
gages were  heavy,  this  figure  quite  justified  the  appella- 


DANGER  NIGH.  83 

tion  of  '*  most  superior  woman,"  given  by  her  male  friends 
to  Alba's  mother.  Her  female  friends  added,  "  She  was 
the  mistress  of  Hafner,  who  paid  her  in  points,"  an  atro- 
cious calumny,  the  more  false  as  she  had  begun  to  make 
a  fortune  before  she  knew  the  Baron.  This  is  her  story : 
At  the  end  of  1873,  while  the  young  widow,  in  her  sump- 
tuous and  dilapidated  dwelling  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
was  struggling  her  best  with  creditors,  one  of  the  great- 
est bankers  of  Rome  proposed  to  her  a  very  advanta- 
geous piece  of  business.  It  concerned  a  large  extent  of 
ground  which  the  Steno  estate  possessed  at  Rome,  in 
the  suburbs,  between  the  Porta  Salara  and  Porta  Pia,  a 
half-abandoned  villino  which  the  late  Cardinal  Steno, 
Michel's  uncle,  had  begun  to  plant.  On  his  decease,  his 
land  was  let  in  lots  to  market  gardeners,  and  it  was  es- 
timated to  be  worth  forty  centimes  the  square  metre. 
The  banker  offered  her  four  francs,  under  the  pretext  of 
wanting  to  build  a  factory  there.  It  was  a  large  sum — 
ready  and  waiting.  The  Countess  asked  for  twenty-four 
hours  for  reflection,  and  refused — a  refusal  by  which 
she  gained  the  eternal  admiration  of  all  business  men 
who  knew  of  it.  In  1882,  less  than  ten  years  later,  she 
sold  the  same  ground  for  ninety  francs  the  metre.  She 
saw,  as  she  looked  at  a  map  of  Rome,  and  thought  of 
modem  Italy,  that  the  new  masters  of  the  Eternal  City 
would  give  wing  to  their  ambition  in  rebuilding  it; 
then,  that  the  portion  between  the  Quirinal  and  the  two 
gates,  Pia  and  Salara,  would  be  one  of  the  chief  points 
where  this  development  would  take  place,  and  finally 
that  speculation  would  bring  her  an  enormous  advance 
over  the  first  offer,  if  she  knew  how  to  wait.  She  did 
wait,  meanwhile  watching  over  her  business  interests 
like  the  strictest  of  agents,  getting  better  leases,  pinch- 
ing herself,  filling  up  gaps  with  unexpected  wind- 
falls. Thus,  in  1875,  she  had  sold  to  the  National  Gal- 
lery, a  series  of  four  panels  by  Carpaccio,  that  had  been 
found  in  one  of  her  country  houses,  for  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  francs.    In  fact,  she  was  as  active  and 


84  COSMOPOLIS. 

practical  in  her  business  life,  as  she  was  fickle  and  au- 
dacious in  her  life  of  sentiment,  or  rather  of  gallantry. 
The  old  story  of  her  having  been  unfaithful  to  Steno  in 
the  first  year  of  her  marriage,  when  they  were  in  the 
embassy  at  St.  Petersburg,  and  met  Werekiew,  was  con- 
firmed by  the  lightness  of  her  conduct  since  she  became 
free.  At  Rome,  where  she  took  up  her  residence  for 
part  of  the  year,  after  the  sale  of  her  land,  from  which 
she  reserved  space  enough  to  erect  this  double  house, 
she  continued  to  make  herself  as  conspicuous  as  at  Ven- 
ice, and  to  manage  her  fortune  with  the  same  intelli- 
gence. A  lucky  investment  in  the  Acqita  Marcia  ena- 
bled her  to  double  in  five  years  the  enormous  profit  of 
her  first  operation.  The  singularly  strong  good  sense 
with  which  the  woman  was  endowed,  when  love  afikirs 
were  not  in  question,  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  she 
stopped  at  these  two  speculations — at  the  very  moment 
when  the  Roman  aristocracy,  possessed  by  a  craze  for 
the  share  market,  began  to  speculate — when  values 
were  at  the  highest  point.  To  pass  the  evening  at  the 
Yilla  Steno,  after  passing  the  morning  at  the  Palazzo 
Castagna,  was  to  realize  one  of  those  paradoxes  of 
contradictory  sensations  that  Dorsenne  loved,  for  poor 
Prince  Ardea  was  ruined  by  wanting  to  do  some  years 
too  late  what  the  Countess  Catherine  had  done  at 
the  right  time.  He,  too,  hoped  for  an  advance  in  the 
value  of  his  real  estate.  Only  it  had  been  bought  by 
him  for  seventy  francs  the  metre,  and  in  '90  it  was 
worth  only  twenty-five.  He,  too,  believed  that  Rome 
would  expand,  and  on  the  lots  he  bought  so  dear,  he  be- 
gan to  build  whole  streets,  fancying  that  he  would  be- 
come, like  the  dukes  of  Bedford  and  Westminster,  in 
London,  the  owner  of  whole  districts.  But  the  contrac- 
tors robbed  him.  His  houses,  when  finished,  were  not 
let.  To  finish  others  he  had  to  borrow.  He  had  spec- 
ulated on  the  Bourse  to  pay  his  debts ;  he  lost,  then  in- 
curred more  debts  to  pay  his  losses.  His  name  to  a 
bill,  as  the  owner  of  II  Marzocco  had  coarsely  said,  had 


DANGER   NIGH.  86 

been  sent  out  into  the  world  in  all  the  various  forms 
which  are  assumed  by  the  fatal,  inexorable  acceptance. 
The  result  was  that  every  wall  of  Rome,  comprising  the 
Via  Venti  Settembre,  adjoining  the  Villa  Steno,  was  cov- 
ered with  many-colored  placards  announcing-  the  sale 
by  auction,  under  the  management  of  Cavaliere  Fossati, 
of  the  collection  of  furniture  in  the  Palazzo  Castagna, 

"  Foresight  is  might,"  Dorsenne  said  to  himself  as  he 
rang  at  the  door  of  Mme.  Steno,  and  mentally  summing 
up  tiie  invincible  association  of  ideas  which  recalled  to 
him  the  palace  of  the  ruined  Roman  prince  as  he  stood 
before  the  villa  of  the  triumphant  Venitienne,  he 
thought :  "  Here  is  the  true  Alpha  and  Omega.  It  is 
the  fashion  of  the  day  to  put  these  two  letters  on  all 
kinds  of  trinkets.  They  ought  to  add  to  them  this  com- 
mentary.    .     .     ." 

The  comparison  between  the  positions  of  Mme.  Steno 
and  the  heir  of  the  Castagnas  had  made  the  inconstant 
novelist  almost  forget  his  design  of  inquiring  about  tlie 
anonymous  letters.  The  comparison  struck  him  the 
more  when  he  entered  the  hall  where  the  Countess  re- 
ceived every  evening.  Ardea  himself  was  there,  in  the 
centre  of  a  group  composed  of  Alba  Steno,  Mme.  Mait- 
land,  Fanny  Hafner,  and  the  Baron,  who,  the  only  person 
standing  up,  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece,  seemed 
an  indulgent  honorable  old  man,  ready  to  bless  all  these 
young  people.  Julien  was  not  surprised  to  see  so  few 
persons  in  the  spacious  salon,  any  more  than  he  was  as- 
tonished at  the  aspect  of  the  room,  encumbered  with  old 
stuffs,  bibelots,  flowers,  bits  of  furniture  in  the  latest 
style,  divans  lumbered  with  innumerable  cushions.  He 
had  had  a  whole  winter  in  which  to  observe,  with  that 
old  -  tapestry  -  knowledge  which  distinguishes  modem 
novelists,  this  apartment,  so  like  hundreds  of  others  at 
Vienna,  Madrid,  Florence,  Berlin,  everywhere  indeed, 
where  a  lady  of  the  house,  more  or  less  cosmopolite, 
strives  to  realize  her  ideal  of  Parisian  elcgfince.  He  had 
been  amused  during  countless  evenings,  in  picking  out, 


86  COSMOPOLIS. 

in  the  almost  international  style  of  furniture,  the  local 
traits  that  disting-uished  one  piece  from  another  of  the 
same  kind.  No  human  being-  becomes  absolutely  arti- 
ficial, either  in  his  house  or  in  his  writing-.  The  writer 
had,  consequently,  noted  that  this  salon  displayed  a  date, 
that  of  the  Countess's  last  visit  to  Paris  in  1880.  She  was 
still  at  the  time  of  the  plush  and  tufted  silk  of  large  cur- 
tains. The  general  tonality,  in  which  g-reen  predomi- 
nated, an  egotistic  impertinence  in  the  case  of  a  bright 
blonde,  had  too  warm  a  color-scale,  that  revealed  Italy. 
Italy  could  be  seen  also  in  the  painted  ceiling  and  in 
the  frieze  that  ran  round  it,  as  in  some  pictures  scattered 
here  and  there,  which  are  not  to  be  found  at  the  sales  at 
the  Hotel  Drouot,  or  at  those  of  Parisian  amateurs.  There 
were  two  panels  by  Moretto  di  Brescia,  especially,  in  his 
second  manner,  the  silver  manner  as  it  is  called,  from 
the  tender,  transparent  fluidity  of  its  colors,  a  "  Supper 
at  the  House  of  Simon,  the  Pharisee,"  and  a  "Jesus 
Awakened  at  the  Lake,"  which  could  not  have  come  ex- 
cept from  the  very  old  palace  of  a  very  old  family.  Dor- 
senne  knew  all  this,  and  he  knew  also  for  what  reasons 
he  found  so  empty  at  this  season  of  the  year  this  hall, 
so  animated  during  the  winter,  and  through  which  he 
had  seen  pass  a  whole  carnival  of  transient  visitors, 
g-reat  lords,  artists,  politicians,  Roman,  Austrian,  Eng- 
lish, and  French — pell-mell. 

The  Countess  was  far  from  occupying  at  Rome  the 
position  which  her  intelligence,  her  fortune,  her  name 
ought  to  have  given  her.  For,  a  Navagero  by  birth, 
she  bore  in  her  escutcheon  the  cross  d'or  of  the  Sebas- 
tien  Navagero,  who  was  the  first  to  mount  the  walls  of 
Lepanto,  and  the  etoile  argente  of  the  great  Doge  Michel. 
But  one  peculiar  trait  in  her  character  had  always  pre- 
vented her  from  succeeding  in  this  line.  She  could  not 
bear  ennui  or  constraint,  and  she  had  no  vanity.  She 
was  positive  and  full  of  passion,  like  the  moneyed  men, 
whose  well-considered  combinations  only  serve  to  as- 
sure the  conditions  of  their  pleasures.    Mme.  Steno  had 


DANGER  NIGH.  87 

never,  for  example,  done  anything  for  anyone  whom 
she  did  not  care  for  except  in  the  interest  of  her  pas- 
sions. She  had  never  displayed  any  diplomatic  strata- 
gems in  her  sudden  changes  of  passion,  and  they  had 
been  numerous  before  Gorka  appeared.  To  him  she  had 
been  faithful,  an  improbable  thing,  for  two  years.  She 
had  never,  except  in  her  inmost  privacy,  observed  any 
moderation  when  the  question  was  to  reach  the  object 
of  her  desire.  Moreover,  at  Rome,  she  had  not  any 
member  of  the  great  family  to  which  she  belonged  to 
back  her  up,  and  she  was  not  a  member  of  either  of  the 
two  coteries,  into  which  Eoman  society,  after  1870,  was 
divided.  Her  spirit  was  too  modern,  her  manners  too 
bold,  for  her  to  be  affiliated  with  the  Blacks ;  she  had 
not  been  received  by  the  admirable  lady  who  reigns  at 
the  Quirinal,  and  who  creates  around  her  an  atmosphere 
of  noble  elevation.  These  various  causes  would  have 
produced  a  kind  of  semi-ostracism  if  the  Countess  had 
not  reckoned  on  it  beforehand,  and  had  not  devoted  all 
her  energies  to  make  a  side-salon,  to  be  recruited  almost 
solely  by  strangers.  The  coming  and  going  of  new 
faces,  the  unexpected  conversation,  the  blending  of  in- 
timacy without  duty,  all  in  this  life  of  movement,  sat- 
isfied the  thirst  for  change,  to  which  was  united  in  this 
strong,  spontaneous,  and  almost  masculinely  immoral 
nature,  a  just  and  clear  perception  of  realities.  If 
Julien  stopped  astonished  at  the  door  of  the  haU,  it  was 
not  because  he  found  it  once  more  without  guests,  but 
because  among  the  visitors  was  the  very  same  Peppino 
Ardea,  whom  he  had  not  met  all  winter.  And,  veritably, 
it  was  a  strange  time  to  show  himself,  the  very  time 
when  the  auctioneer's  hammer  was  already  raised  over 
all  that  had  been  the  pride  and  splendor  of  his  name. 
It  must  be  said  that  the  grand-nephew  of  Urban  VII., 
seated  between  Fanny  Hafner  in  pale  blue,  and  Alba  in 
flame-red,  opposite  Mme.  Maitland,  so  graceful  in  mauve, 
had  by  no  manner  of  means  the  look  of  a  man  blasted 
by  adversity.     The  half-light,  adroitly  distributed  from 


88  COSMOPOLIS. 

high  and  low  lamps,  lit  up  with  a  delicate  g;\ow  his 
fine,  manly  profile  that  had  lost  nothing-  of  its  haughty- 
amiability.  The  two  dominant  notes  in  his  counte- 
nance, irregular  and  striking  as  it  was,  were  fatuity 
and  good-humor.  His  deep  black  eyes,  very  brilliant, 
very  mobile,  seemed  to  be  able  almost  in  the  same 
glance  to  sneer  and  smile,  while  his  lips,  shaded  by 
his  brown  mustache,  expressed  disdain  as  well  as  crav- 
ing, satiety  as  well  as  sensuality.  The  shaven  chin 
showed  blue  shades  which  gave  to  his  face  an  expres- 
sion of  strength,  contradicted  by  his  rather  frail  and 
evidently  too  nervous  body.  The  heir  of  the  Castag- 
nas  had  been  a  "  viveur,"  in  that  style  of  Anglomania 
affected  by  certain  Italians,  but  which  is  always  out  of 
pitch  a  little — just  as  the  Countess's  salon.  The  Prince 
wore  too  many  rings,  too  big  a  flower  at  his  button-hole, 
he  gesticulated  too  often  and  too  much  to  allow  one  for 
a  moment,  after  looking  at  his  brown  complexion,  to 
cherish  any  illusion  as  to  his  nationality.  He  it  was 
who,  first  of  all  the  group,  saw  Julien,  and  he  said,  or 
rather  cried  in  a  familiar  tone : 

"  Why,  Dorsenne,  I  thought  you  had  left.  You  have 
not  been  visible  at  the  Club  for  a  fortnight." 

*'  He  has  been  working,"  said  Hafner,  "  on  some  new 
masterpiece,  a  romance  of  Roman  life,  I  am  sure.  Be  on 
your  guard.  Prince,  and  you,  mesdames,  disarm  this 
portrait-painter.     .     .     ." 

"  If  he  likes,"  cried  Ardea,  laughing  merrily,  "  I  will 
give  him  notes  about  myself,  as  big  as  that.  I'll  illus- 
trate his  story,  moreover,  with  photographs  for  which  I 
used  to  have  a  passion.  See,  mademoiselle,"  turning  to 
Fanny,  "  how  we  ruin  ourselves.  I  had  a  craze  for  in- 
stantaneous photographs.  A  very  convenient  thing,  is 
it  not !  Well,  it  cost  me  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year 
for  four  years." 

Dorsenne  had,  of  course,  heard  that  it  was  an  under- 
stood thing  between  Peppino  and  his  friends,  to  treat 
lightly  the  misfortune  that  had  befallen  the  Castagna 


DANGER   NIGH.  89 

family  in  its  last  and  only  scion.  But  Dorsenne  never 
suspected  such  a  cool  demeanor.  He  was  so  discon- 
certed that  he  took  no  notice  of  the  Baron's  remark,  as 
he  would  have  done,  at  any  other  moment.  The  late 
founder  of  the  Credit  Austro-Dalmate  did  not  fail  to 
show  in  a  certain  fashion  his  deep-rooted  aversion  for 
the  novelist.  Men  of  his  order,  profoundly  cynical  and 
calculating",  dread  and  despise  at  the  same  time  cer- 
tain kinds  of  literature.  It  seems  to  them  to  tell  truths 
thoroughly  dangerous  to  write,  and  very  unimportant  as 
regards  the  principles  that  they  profess  in  practical  life. 
Hafner,  also,  had  too  much  tact  not  to  feel  the  instinctive 
repulsion  which  he  caused  in  Julien  Dorsenne.  But  for 
Hafner  every  social  force  had  its  prince  marked,  and  lit- 
erary success  as  much  as  any  other.  So  he  was  afraid, 
as  the  day  before  at  the  palace  Castagna,  of  having  gone 
too  far,  and,  laying  on  the  novelist's  shoulder  his  hand 
with  its  long  supple  fingers  which  seemed  always  to 
begrudge  a  squeeze,  he  added: 

"  This  is  what  I  admire  in  him.  He  will  let  outsiders 
like  me  tease  him  without  ever  being  annoyed.  He  is 
the  only  celebrated  author  who  is  so  unaffected.  But 
he  is  more  than  an  author.  He  is  a  man  of  the 
world.    .     .    ." 

"  Is  the  Countess  not  here?  "  asked  Dorsenne,  address- 
ing himself  to  Alba  Steno,  without  paying  any  more 
attention  to  the  compliment — unconsciously  offensive — 
of  the  Baron,  than  he  had  to  his  sneer,  or  to  the  jocose 
offer  of  the  Prince.  The  absence  of  Mme.  Steno  gave 
him  a  new  pang  which  the  girl  dissipated  by  her  an- 
swer. 

"  My  mother  is  on  the  terrace.  We  were  afraid  it  was 
too  cold  for  Fanny."  The  simple  phrase  was  pro- 
nounced simply  while  the  girl  was  fanning  herself  with 
a  large  fan  of  curled,  pliant  white  feathers.  Every 
wave  of  the  fan  made  an  aureole  of  the  locks  of  her 
blonde  hair,  which  she  wore  in  ringlets  rather  high  on 
her  forehead.    Julien  knew  her  too  well  not  to  observe 


90  COSMOPOLIS. 

that  her  voice,  her  manner,  her  looks,  her  whole  sell, 
betrayed  a  nervousness  akin,  at  the  moment,  to  pain. 
Was  she  still  annoyed  by  the  petulance  of  the  last  even- 
ing ?  Or  was  she  a  prey  to  one  of  those  inexplicable 
moods  which  had  led  Dorsenne,  in  his  meditations  dur- 
ing the  past  night,  to  such  strange  suspicions  ?  The  sus- 
picions returned  to  him,  with  the  feeling  that  of  all  the 
persons  there  present,  Alba  was  the  only  one  whose 
look  seemed  to  betray  a  consciousness  of  the  drama 
which  was,  without  doubt,  imminent.  He  resolved  to 
seek,  at  once  and  once  more,  for  the  solution  of  the 
living  enigma  presented  by  the  young  girl.  How  lovely 
she  seemed  to  him,  this  evening,  bearing  one  of  her 
two  expressions  which  seemed  like  a  tragic  mask ! 
The  corners  of  her  mouth  were  rather  depressed,  the 
upper  lip — almost  too  short — displayed  her  clenched 
teeth,  and  in  the  lower  part  of  her  pale  face  was  a  bit- 
terness, so  precociously  sad !  Why  ?  It  was  not  the 
time  to  proceed  to  this  inquest.  He  must  first  go  and 
pay  his  respects  to  Mme.  Steno  on  the  terrace  which 
terminated  in  a  paradise  of  Italian  voluptuousness,  a 
room  furnished  in  imitation  of  Paris.  Evergreens 
shivered  in  terra-cotta  vases  ornamented  with  stucco. 
Busts  were  arranged  on  the  balustrade,  and  beyond  it 
the  spreading  pines  of  the  Villa  Bonaparte  outlined 
their  dark  shades  against  a  sky  of  velvet  blue  embroi- 
dered with  large  stars.  A  vague  scent  of  acacias,  from 
a  neighboring  garden,  floated  in  the  air  which  had  the 
lightness  of  gossamer,  caressing,  subtile,  and  warm. 
This  state  of  the  atmosphere,  soft  to  mellowness,  was 
enough  to  prove  the  falsehood  of  the  Contessina,  who 
evidently  wished  to  justify  the  tete-cl-teie  of  her  mother 
and  Maitland.  The  two  lovers  were,  in  fact,  side  by 
side  in  the  fragrance,  the  mystery,  and  the  solitude  of 
this  obscure  and  quiet  terrace.  Dorsenne,  coming  from 
the  full  glare  of  the  salon,  required  a  minute  to  distin- 
guish, in  the  dim  shadow,  the  outlines  of  the  Countess, 
who,  dressed  entirely  in  white,  was  reclining  on  a  long 


DANGER  NIGH.  91 

cane  chair  with  cushions  of  soft  silk.  She  was  smoking 
a  cigarette,  the  slight  glow  of  which,  at  each  inhalation, 
gave  light  enough  to  indicate  that,  in  spite  of  the  night 
air,  her  beautiful,  long,  and  flexible  neck,  with  its  collar 
of  pearls,  was  bare,  bare  to  the  spring  of  her  bust  and 
her  white  shoulders,  bare  her  well-formed  arms,  which, 
laden  with  bracelets,  appeared  beneath  her  large  flow- 
ing sleeves.  Julien,  as  he  approached,  recognized, 
amid  the  flowery  odors  of  the  spring  night,  the  scent 
of  Virginia  tobacco,  which  Mme.  Steno  had  taken  to 
using  since  she  had  been  smitten  with  Maitland,  in  place 
of  the  Russian  "  papyros  "  to  which  Gorka  had  accus- 
tomed her.  It  is  by  such  insignificant  traits  that  one 
can  recognize  the  women  whose  amorous  passion  is  pro- 
foundly, insatiably  sensual.  Such  was  the  only  passion 
of  which  the  Venetian  was  capable.  The  passionate 
need  of  surrendering  themselves  more  and  more,  leads 
them  to  wed,  so  to  speak,  the  most  trifling  habits  of  the 
man  they  love  in  this  fashion.  It  is  thus  that  we  must 
explain  the  changes  of  tastes,  ideas,  even  of  appear- 
ance, which  are  so  thorough  that  in  six  months  or  three 
months,  they  are  different  women.  Near  this  graceful 
and  lissome  phantom,  Lincoln  Maitland  was  sitting  on  a 
chair,  too  low  to  enable  one  to  judge  of  his  stature.  But 
his  broad  shoulders,  displayed  in  all  their  vigor  by  his 
evening  dress,  showed  that  before  studying  Art,  he  had 
heard  of  the  "  Art  of  Self -Defence,"  and  had  not  only 
studied  it,  but  had  unceasingly  practiced  the  most  ath- 
letic sports  of  his  English  education.  The  epithet 
"  large  "  was  the  first  to  be  suggested  at  any  mention 
of  him.  Above  his  large  chest  rose  a  large  face,  rather 
red,  cut  in  two  by  a  heavy  ruddy  mustache,  which  dis- 
closed, as  he  smiled  one  of  his  large  smiles,  large  white 
rows  of  strong  teeth.  Large  rings  glittered  on  his 
fingers.  In  fine,  he  was  the  exactly  opposite  type  to 
that  of  Boleslas  Gorka.  If  the  descendant  of  the  Polish 
castellans  reminded  one  of  the  dangerous  grace  of  a 
feline,  of  some  slender,  pretty  panther,  Maitland  might 


92  COSMOPOLIS. 

be  compared  to  some  powerful,  brutal  mastiff,  the  do^  of 
legend,  with  jaws  and  muscles  strong  enough  to  choke 
lions.  All  that  was  painter  in  him  resided  in  his  eye 
and  hand,  and  was  as  much  a  physical  endowment  as 
the  formation  of  the  throat  in  a  tenor.  But  this  abnor- 
mal instinct  had  been  developed,  cultivated,  made  fruit- 
ful by  that  energy  of  will  for  culture  which  forms  so 
marked  a  trait  in  the  Anglo-Saxons  of  the  New  World 
when  they  love  Europe  in  place  of  hating  it.  Just  at 
present  his  desire  for  culture  seemed  reduced  to  pas- 
sionate inhalation  of  the  perfume  of  that  divine  white 
rose  of  love,  that  was  named  Mme.  Steno — a  rose  in 
almost  too  full  bloom,  and  beginning  to  fade  in  its  for- 
tieth autumn.  She  was,  however,  still  delicious,  and 
Maitland  seemed  to  care  little  for  the  presence  of  his 
wife  in  the  adjoining  room,  from  whose  door-windows 
poured  a  light  that  deepened  the  kindly  shadow  of  the 
voluptuous  tenace.  He  held  in  his  hand  the  hand  of 
his  mistress,  but  dropped  it  when  he  saw  Dorsenne, 
who  had  taken  good  care  to  make  a  noise  by  upsetting 
a  chair  as  he  drew  near.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  tone  and 
with  a  frank  laugh : 

"  I  should  have  made  a  poor  Abbe  of  the  last  century, 
for  to-night  I  can  see  nothing.  If  your  cigarette, 
Countess,  had  not  served  as  my  beacon,  I  should  have 
run  up  against  the  balustrade." 

"It  is  you,  Dorsenne  ?  "  Mme.  Steno  replied,  in  a  cold 
tone  which  was  in  such  flagrant  contradiction  to  her 
usual  amiability,  that  the  novelist  could  not  but  draw 
two  conclusions.  One  was  that  he  was  the  Terzo  Inco- 
modo  of  classic  comedy ;  the  other,  that  Hafner  had  re- 
peated his  imprudent  remarks  of  the  day  before.  "  So 
much  the  worse,"  he  thought.  *'  I  gave  her  warning, 
and  on  reflection  she  will  thank  me.  There  is  not  much 
reflection  in  her  mind  at  this  instant."  While  saying 
this  to  himself,  he  spoke  aloud  about  the  heat  of  the 
day,  the  weather  probabilities  for  to-morrow,  Ardea's 
good  nature — a  score  of  useless  remarks  to  fill  up  a  rea- 


DANGER  NIGH.  93 

sonable  time  till  he  could  leave  tlie  terrace  and  restore 
the  lovers  to  their  tete-a-tete,  without  exhibiting  that 
indiscreet  haste  to  depart  that  is  as  disagreeable  as 
persistence  in  remaining. 

"  When  shall  we  come  and  see  the  portrait  finished  in 
your  studio,  Maitland  ? "  he  asked  as  he  remained 
standing  to  get  away  easier. 

"  Finished ! "  cried  the  Countess,  who  added,  using  a 
diminutive  which  in  the  last  few  weeks  she  had  given  to 
her  lover.  "  Don't  you  know  that  Linco  has  rubbed  out 
all  the  head  again  %  " 

"  All  the  head — no,"  said  the  painter  ;  "  but  it  is  true 
that  the  profile  will  have  to  be  retouched.  You  remem- 
ber, Dorsenne,  those  two  pictures  by  Piero  della  Fran- 
cesca,  at  Florence,  the  Duke  Federigo  of  Urbino,  and  his 
wife  Battista  Sforza?  Did  you  not  see  them  in  the 
same  room  as  the  Calumnia  of  Botticelli,  with  a  land- 
scape in  the  background  ?  It  is  sketched  like  this,"  and 
he  made  a  motion  with  his  thumb,  "  a  touch  of  fresco 
style.  That  is  it.  Yes ;  that  is  how  it  is.  This  was  the 
very  thing  I  was  looking  for,  the  necessary  line,  the 
profile  that  holds  all  profiles.  That  painter,  Fra  Carne- 
vale  et  Melozzo — there  is  none  better  in  Italy." 

"  Titian  and  Eaphael  ?  "  observed  Mme.  Steno. 

"And  the  Viennese  school,  and  the  Lorenzetti  you 
rave  about  1  You  wrote  to  me  about  them  in  reference 
to  my  article  on  your  exhibition  of  '86,  don't  you  re- 
member ?  "  continued  the  writer. 

"  Raphael  ?  "  replied  Maitland.  "  Do  you  really  want 
me  to  give  you  my  opinion  of  Raphael?  A  sublime 
contractor:  Titian?  A  sublime  embroiderer.  The 
Tiennese,  I  grant,  have  always  been  favorites  of  mine," 
he  added,  turning  to  Dorsenne.  "  I  spent  three  weeks 
copying  the  Simone  Martini  in  the  Municipality,  the 
Guido  Riccio  who  is  riding  between  two  forts  over  a 
gray  heath,  where  not  a  tree,  not  a  house  is  visible^ 
nothing  but  lances  and  towers.  And  Lorenzetti !  Don't 
I  remember  him !    Especially  his  fresco  at  San  Fran- 


94  COSMOPOLIS. 

cesco,  where  St.  Francis  presents  his  Order  to  the  pope. 
That's  the  best  thing*  he  did.  There  is  a  cardinal  who 
puts  his  thumb  in  his  mouth,  like  this."  Another  imi- 
tative gesture.  "  I  have  recovered  from  that,  because 
you  see  it  is  story-telling,  reporting  done  on  a  wall — 
good  reporting,  oh,  yes!  But  without  the  subject, 
Pshaw !  While  Piero  della  Francesca,  Camevale  Me- 
lozzo.  .  .  ."  he  paused  to  search  out  a  word  to  em- 
brace the  complex  idea  that  filled  his  mind — "  there  is 
painting  for  you !  " 

"  Still  the  Assunta  of  Titian  and  the  Transfiguration  of 
Raphael ! "  exclaimed  the  Countess,  who  added  in  Italian, 
with  an  accent  of  enthusiasm,  "  Ah  !    Clie  bellezza  f  " 

"  Do  not  be  distressed,  Countess,"  Dorsenne  said,  with 
a  laugh ;  "  these  are  professional  opinions.  I  am  a 
writer,  and  I  declared,  some  ten  years  ago,  that  Victor 
Hugo  was  an  amateur,  and  Alfred  de  Musset  a  plebeian. 
It  did  not  hurt  them,  nor  me  either.  But,  as  I  am  not 
descended  either  from  Dog'es  or  Pilgrim  Fathers,  and  am 
merely  a  poor  degenerate  Gallo-Roman,  I  am  afraid  of 
damp  evenings  for  my  rheumatism,  and  I  beg  to  ask 
permission  to  return  to  the  house."  Then,  as  he  passed 
the  door  of  the  salon :  "  Raphael  a  contractor !  Titian 
an  embroiderer!  Lorenzetti  a  reporter!  And  the  Do- 
g"aressa  listens  to  all  this  stuflF,  seriously — she,  whose 
ideal  is  a  decent  chromo !  This  beats  everything !  As 
for  Gorka,  if  he  had  not  wasted  my  whole  afternoon 
yesterday,  I  could  fancy  myself  dreaming,  so  little  do 
they  think  of  him.  And  Ardea,  who  continues  to  brag 
of  his  ruin.  He  is  not  bad  for  an  Italian.  But  he  will 
acquire  bad  taste,  and  talk  too  much.     .     .     ." 

In  fact  just  as  he  was  approaching  the  group  that  was 
gathered  in  a  corner  of  the  salon,  beneath  a  picture  by 
Moretto,  he  heard  the  Prince  relating  a  story  about 
the  Cavaliero  Fossati,  who  had  charge  of  the  sale. 

"  '  How  much  will  you  make  on  the  whole  ? '  I  asked 
him  finally.  *  Oh,  not  much,'  he  replied.  But  here  a 
little  and  there  a  little,  ends  in  a  good  deal.    And  then 


DANGER  NIGn.  96 

with  what  an  air  he  added,  '  j&'  gid,  il  moscJdno  e  conte.^ 
And  then  the  fly  is  a  count.  lie  was  that  same  fly ! 
People  called  him  so  when  he  was  peddling  about  in 
Umbria.  '  A  few  more  sales  like  yours,  Prince,  and  my 
son,  one  of  the  Counts  Fossati,  with  half  a  million,  will 
be  a  member  of  the  Club,  and  play  goK  with  you.'  There 
is  all  that  in  his  '  then ' !  On  my  honor,  I  was  never  so 
much  amused  since  I  became  penniless." 

"  You  are  an  optimist,  Prince,"  said  Hafner,  "  and 
in  spite  of  our  friend  Dorsenne  here,  one  must  be  an 
optimist  in  this  life.    .     .    ." 

"You  are  attacking-  him  again,  father,"  Fanny  ob- 
served in  a  tone  of  respectful  reproach. 

"  Not  him,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  but  his  ideas,  and 
above  all  the  ideas  of  his  school.  Well,  well,"  he  con- 
tinued, either  because  he  wished  to  turn  the  course  of 
the  conversation  which  Ardea  persisted  in  confining  to 
his  ruin,  or  because,  in  a  world  so  well  organized  that 
operations  like  that  of  the  Austro-Dalmatian  Credit 
were  possible,  he  really  felt  a  profound  aversion  to  the 
melancholy  and  pessimism,  rather  affected,  it  must  be 
confessed,  which  colored  Julien's  looks.  "  As  I  listened 
to  you,  Ardea,  and  saw  this  great  novelist  approach,  I 
thought,  as  a  contrast,  of  the  fashion  people  affect  to- 
day of  seeing  all  life  in  black." 

"  You  find  it  very  bright  ?  "  asked  Alba  abruptly. 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Hafner.  "  I  was  sure  that  if  I  spoke 
against  pessimism,  I  should  make  the  Contessina  talk. 
Very  bright  ?  "  he  continued.  "  Certainly  not ;  but  when 
I  think  of  the  misfortunes  that  might  have  befallen 
all  of  us,  for  example,  I  find  life  very,  very  tolerable. 
Fancy  being  bom  in  another  epoch.  You  see  yourself, 
Contessina,  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  at  Venice, 
liable  to  arrest  any  day  as  the  result  of  a  communica- 
tion to  the  Council  of  Ten  ?  And  you,  Dorsenne,  ex- 
posed to  be  cudgelled,  like  M.  de  Voltaire,  by  some  jeal- 
ous grand  seigneur  ?  And  the  Prince  of  Ardea  risking 
assassination  or  confiscation  at  ,each  change  of  a  pope  ? 


96  COSMOPOLIS. 

And  I  myself,  as  a  Protestant,  chased  out  of  France,  per- 
secuted in  Austria,  harassed  in  Italy,  burned  in  Spain." 

As  one  can  see,  he  was  careful  to  choose  between 
his  two  hereditary  elements.  He  did  it  with  an  enig- 
matic good-nature  that  was  almost  ironical.  He  checked 
himself,  to  avoid  mentioning  what  Mme.  Maitland 
might  have  been  before  the  abolition  of  slavery.  He 
knew  that  this  very  pretty  and  refined  lady  shared  the 
prejudices  of  her  compatriots  against  black  blood,  and 
employed  every  means  of  concealing  the  original  taint, 
going  so  far  as  never  to  take  off  her  gloves.  It  is  only 
fair  to  add  that  only  a  tinge  of  gold  in  her  complexion, 
her  slightly  crisp  hair,  and  a  vague  bluish  tint  in  the 
white  of  the  eyes,  revealed  the  mixture  of  races.  She 
did  not  seem  to  have  appreciated  the  Baron's  silence, 
but  arranged,  in  a  careless  air,  the  folds  of  her  mauve 
dress,  while  Dorsenne  replied : 

"  Well  reasoned  and  specious.  There  is  no  other  flaw 
in  it,  except  want  of  truth.  For  I  defy  you  to  imagine 
what  you  would  have  been  at  the  epoch  of  which  you 
speak.  People  are  fond  of  saying,  'If  I  had  lived  a 
hundred  years  ago' — and  forget  that  a  hundred  years 
ago  they  would  not  have  been  the  same,  would  not  have 
had  the  same  ideas,  the  same  tastes  or  the  same  wants. 
It  is  very  much  like  claiming  to  imagine  what  you  would 
think  if  you  were  a  bird  or  a  serpent." 

"  One  can  always  imagine  what  it  would  be  to  have 
never  been  bom !  "  exclaimed  Alba  Steno.  She  uttered 
the  remark  in  so  strange  a  manner  that  the  little  dis- 
cussion started  by  Hafner  fell  to  the  gi'ound  at  once. 
Words  too  deeply  felt  produce  such  an  effect  in  these 
chatterings  of  idlers  who  believe  only  half  the  ideas 
that  they  give  out.  And,  although  it  is  always  a  para- 
dox to  find  fault  with  life  in  the  midst  of  luxurious  sur- 
roundings, and  when  one  is  not  twenty  years  of  age,  the 
girl  was  evidently  sincere.  Whence  came  this  sincerity  ? 
From  what  comer  of  a  young  heart  wounded  till  it  fes- 
tered 1    Dorsenne  was  the  only  one  to  put  such  a  ques- 


DANGER   NIGII.  97 

tion  to  himself,  for  the  conversation  at  once  changed, 
as  Lydia  Maitland,  pointing  with  her  fan  to  Alba's 
sleeve  as  she  sat  within  two  seats  of  her,  asked,  with  an 
irony  which,  after  Alba's  remark,  was  as  delightful  as 
it  certainly  was  unintended  : 

"  It  is  mousseline  de  soie,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Contessina,  rising  and  straighten- 
ing her  figure,  as  she  held  out  to  her  fair  and  curious 
neighbor  her  arm  which  appeared  frail,  nervous,  with  a 
blonde  down,  through  the  transparent  fold  of  the  soft 
red  stuff,  which  a  bow  of  ribbon  of  the  same  color  fas- 
tened to  her  delicate- shoulder  and  her  slender  wrist. 
Ardea's  voice  could  be  heard  as,  inclining  to  Fanny, — 
who  was  more  lovely  than  ever  that  evening  with  her 
pale  complexion  flushed  a  little  by  some  secret  inter- 
est ; — he  said  : 

"  You  were  at  my  palace,  yesterday,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

"  Ask  her  why,  Prince,"  said  Hafner. 

"  Father ! "  cried  Fanny^  with  a  look  of  entreaty  in 
her  black  eyes,  which  Ardea  had  the  delicacy  to  heed, 
as  he  continued : 

"  It  is  a  pity !  Eveiything  there  is  very  common- 
place. But  you  would  have  been  interested  by  the 
chapel.  At  heart  I  regret  most  the  objects  before 
which  my  race  has  prayed  so  long,  and  which  are  the 
last  in  the  catalogue.  They  have  taken  even  a  reli 
quary,  because  it  was  by  Ugolino  da  Siena.  I'll  buy 
back  the  most  I  can.  Your  father  praises  my  courage. 
I  do  not  believe  I  shall  have  courage  enough  to  separ- 
ate myself  from  such  objects  without  real  sorrow." 

"  It  is  the  feeling  she  entertains  respecting  the  whole 
palace,"  said  the  Baron. 

"  Father ! "  said  Fanny,  again. 

"  Do  not  be  disturbed.  I'll  not  betray  you,"  he  replied, 
while  Alba,  taking  advantage  of  her  having  left  her 
seat,  stepped  out  from  the  circle  of  talkei-s.  She  walked 
to  a  table  placed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  laden 


98  COSMOPOLIS. 

with  a  tea-set,  in  English  style,  and  iced  drinks.  As 
Julien  followed  her  she  inquired : 

"  Shall  I  mix  your  brandy   and  soda,  Dorsenne  ? " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Contessina,"  the  young  man 
asked  in  a  low  tone,  while  they  stood  together  at  the 
large  table  on  which  the  cut-glass  and  the  silverware 
shone  white  and  new  against  the  intense  but  dull  back- 
ground of  the  room.  "  Yes,"  he  persisted,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?    Are  you  still  vexed  with  me  ? " 

"With  you?"  she  said.  "Why,  I  have  never  been 
vexed  with  you !  Why  should  I  be  ?  "  she  repeated. 
"  You  have  never  done  anything,  you.     .    .     ." 

"  Who,  then,  has  done  something  to  hurt  you  ?"  he 
asked.  He  saw  she  was  speaking  in  good  faith,  and 
scarcely  thought  of  the  annoyance  of  the  day  before. 
"  A  friend  like  me  you  cannot  deceive,"  he  continued. 
"  By  the  very  way  in  which  you  used  your  fan,  I  saw 
that  it  was  your  mood  to  be  annoyed.  Ah,  I  know  you 
so  well.     .     ,     ." 

"  I  am  not  annoyed,"  she  replied,  with  an  impatient 
frown  of  her  long  silky  eyebrows,  that  ended  in  a  shade 
of  gold  on  the  temples.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  people 
lie  in  such  a  fashion.     That  is  all." 

"  Who  has  been  lying  ?  "  replied  Dorsenne. 

"Did  you  not  hear  Ardea  talk  of  his  chapel  just 
now  ?  A  man  who  believes  in  God  about  as  much  as 
Hafner — of  whom  nobody  knows  whether  he  is  Jew  or 
Christian  ?  Have  you  not  seen  poor  Fanny  all  this 
time?  Did  you  not  notice  with  what  tact  the  Baron 
alluded  to  the  delicacy  that  prevented  his  daughter 
from  joining  us  in  our  visit  to  the  palace  Castagna? 
Does  not  this  comedy,  played  by  these  two  men,  give 
you  something  to  think  of  ?  " 

"  Then  that's  why  Peppino  is  here,"  said  Julien.  "  A 
project  of  marriage  between  the  heiress  of  Papa  Hafner's 
millions  and  the  great-grand-nephew  of  Pope  Urban 
VII.  ...  a  nice  subject  of  conversation  with  a  cer- 
tain gentleman  of  my  acquaintance."    The  mere  thought 


DANGER  NIGH.  99 

of  Montfanon  hearing  such  a  bit  of  news  produced  a 
burst  of  laughter,  and  he  continued,  "  Do  not  look  at  me 
with  indignation,  Contessina  ;*but  I  cannot  find  matter 
for  deep  melancholy  in  this  story.  Fanny  marrying 
Peppino  ?  Why  not  ?  You  have  told  me  yourself  that 
she  is  half  Catholic  already,  and  that  her  father  is  only 
waiting  for  her  marriage  to  have  her  baptized.  He  will 
be  happy.  Ardea  will  keep  his  fine  palace,  which  we 
saw  yesterday,  and  the  Baron  will  crown  his  career  by 
restoring  to  one  fool  ruined  on  the  Bourse,  by  way  of 
dowry,  what  he  has  made  out  of  others.  The  sons-in- 
law  of  financial  bandits,  like  the  Baron,  take  vengeance 
for  the  shareholders." 

"  Silence ! "  said  the  girl,  in  a  grave  voice.  "  You  hor- 
rify me.  That  Ardea  should  lose  all  scruples  and  be  ready 
to  sell  his  title  of  Koman  prince  as  dearly  as  possible  to 
the  first  bidder,  is  no  more  to  me  than  that  we  Venetians 
let  ourselves  be  imposed  on  by  the  nobility  of  Rome. 
We  have  all  had  doges  in  our  families  when  the  fathers 
of  these  men  were  still  bandits  in  the  Campagna,  waiting 
till  some  poor  monk  of  the  name  became  pope.  That 
Baron  Hafner  should  invest  his  daughter  as  they  say  he 
used  to  invest  his  plated  trinkets  in  his  youth,  is  nothing 
to  me  either.  But  you  do  not  know  her.  You  do  not 
know  what  a  charming,  enthusiastic  being  she  is,  how 
simple  and  sincere,  and  who  will  never  entertain  the 
thought  that  her  father  is  a  thief,  in  the  first  place,  and 
that  he  is  peddling  her  about  like  a  bibelot,  in  order  to 
have  grandchildren  who  are  great-grand-nephews  of  a 
pope,  nor  will  she  have  the  idea  that  Peppino  does  not 
love  her,  that  he  wants  her  dowry,  and  that  he  will  have 
for  her  much  the  same  sentiments  one  has  for "  in- 
dicating Mme.  Maitland  by  a  glance.  "  It  is  still  worse 
than  I  say,"  she  said,  mysteriously,  like  some  one  who 
feels  herself  carried  away  by  her  own  words,  and  is 
almost  afraid  of  them. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Julien.  "  It  would  be  very  sad.  But 
are  you  sure  you  do  not  exaggerate  ?      There  is  not  so 


100  COSMOPOLIS. 

much  calculation  in  this  life — it  is  more  commonplace 
and  more  easy-goinsf.  Perhaps  the  Prince  and  the 
Baron  have  a  vague  plan.     .     .     ." 

"  A  vague  plan ! "  exclaimed  Alba,  shrugging  her  deli- 
cate shoulders.  "  There  is  never  anything  vague  with 
Hafner,  you  may  be  sure.  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you 
that  I  am  sure,  mark  me — sure  that  it  is  he  who  holds 
between  his  fingers  the  bulk  of  the  Prince's  debts,  and 
who  has  had  them  sold  by  Ancona,  to  place  the  market 
in  his  hands  ?  " 

"  Impossible ! "  cried  Dorsenne.  "  You  saw  him  yes- 
terday, yourself,  deliberating  about  buying  this  thing 
or  that.     .    .     ." 

"  Do  not  make  me  talk  any  more,"  replied  Alba,  pass- 
ing twice  or  thrice  across  her  brow  and  eyes  her  slender 
and  white  hand  on  which  no  ring  glittered,  and  which 
betrayed  by  its  movements  her  extreme  nervous  excita- 
bilitj''.  "I  have  already  said  too  much  about  it.  It  is 
not  my  affair,  and  poor  Fanny  is  only  a  recent  friend  of 
mine,  although  I  find  her  so  tender  and  sympathetic.  I 
think  she  is  about  to  fetter  her  whole  life — and  there  is 
no  one,  there  can  be  no  one  to  cry  to  her,  *  They  lie  to 
you ! '  How  piteous,  how  very  piteous  it  is !  That  is 
all.    It  is  childish." 

It  is  always  cruelly  distressing  to  observe  in  a  young 
person  such  an  exact  vision  of  the  dark  underside  of 
life,  which,  once  entered  into  the  soul,  never  permits 
the  existence  of  that  light-hearted  freedom  from  care 
which  is  natural  at  twenty.  Alba  Steno  had  often  left 
on  Dorsenne  this  impression  of  precocious  disenchant- 
ment, and  this  had  been  her  principal  attraction  for  this 
student  of  feminine  nature.  Yet  at  this  instant  he  was 
struck  mute  by  the  terrible  absence  of  illusions  re- 
vealed in  such  a  penetrating  and  keen  insight  into  the 
projects  of  Fanny's  father.  Whence  had  she  learned 
them  ?  Clearly  from  Mme.  Steno  herself,  either  because 
the  Baron  and  the  Countess  had  talked  too  freely  before 
her  to  permit  a  doubt,  or  because  she  had  divined  mis- 


DANGER  NIGH.  101 

taken  intentions  behind  and  under  the  words  spoken. 
Looking-  at  her  thns,  her  mouth  bitter,  her  eyes  hag- 
gard, a  prey  to  a  dull  fever  of  internal  revolt,  Dorsenne 
again  felt  confirmed  anew  in  his  idea  of  his  own  perspi- 
cacity. She  must  have  applied  the  same  strength  of 
thought  to  the  conduct  of  her  mother.  It  seemed  to 
him  that,  as  she  was  turning  up  the  wick  of  the  lamp 
under  the  tea-urn,  she  looked  toward  the  terrace  where 
the  white  robe  of  the  Countess  gleamed  through  the 
shadows.  All  at  once  the  mad  notions  that  had  tor- 
mented him  the  evening  before,  and  the  project  he  had 
formed  of  imitating  his  model  Hamlet,  and  playing  in 
Mme.  Steno's  salon  the  trick  of  the  Prince  of  Denmark 
on  his  uncle,  returned  to  his  memory.  With  his  air  of 
habitual  indifference  he  took  up  the  last  words  that  the 
young  girl  had  just  uttered,  and  continued : 

"You  need  not  be  disturbed.  Ardea  has  plenty  of 
enemies,  and  Hafner  more.  Some  one  will  turn  up 
and  reveal  their  little  stratagem,  if  there  is  one,  to  the 
fair  Fanny.  An  anonymous  letter  is  quickly  writ- 
ten." 

No  sooner  had  he  pronounced  these  words  than  he 
checked  himself  with  the  shock  of  a  man  who  handles  a 
weapon  he  thinks  unloaded,  and  hears  the  ball  whiz 
out.  He  really  had  spoken  in  this  style  to  acquit  his 
conscience  of  what  was  due  to  his  scejjticism,  and  never 
expected  to  see  a  new  cloud  of  pain  pass  over  the  proud 
and  mobile  face  of  Alba.  She  displayed,  however,  an  ex- 
pression of  deeper  disgust  in  the  lines  of  her  mouth,  and 
more  of  sombre  disdain  in  her  eyes,  while  her  hands, 
occupied  with  the  tea-things,  trembled  still  more  as  she 
said,  in  an  accent  too  full  of  emotion  not  to  make  him 
regret  his  cruel  experiment : 

*'  Do  not  wish  her  that !  That  would  be  worse  still 
than  her  present  ignorance.  Now,  at  least,  she  knows 
nothing,  and  if  some  wretch  were  to  do  what  you  have 
just  said,  she  would  know  only  in  half,  without  being 
sure.     How  can  you  smile  at  such  a  supposition  ?   .    .   . 


102  COSMOPOLIS. 

No,  poor  sweet  Fanny !  I  hope  she  will  never  receive 
anonymous  letters.  It  is  so  cowardly,  and  the  thought 
hurts  me." 

"  I  beg  pardon  if  I  have  vexed  you,"  replied  Dor- 
senne. 

He  had  just  touched,  he  perceived,  a  bleeding"  spot  in 
her  heart,  and  saw  with  alarm  that  Alba  Steno  had  not 
only  not  written  the  anonymous  letters  addressed  to 
Gorka,  but  had  herself  received  some.  From  whom  ? 
Who  was  the  mysterious  informer  who  wrote  in  this 
abominable  manner  to  the  daughter  of  Mme.  Steno,  as 
well  as  to  her  lover  ?  Julien  was  chilled  to  the  marrow, 
and  continued :  "  If  I  smiled,  it  was  because  I  believe 
that  Mdlle.  Hafner,  in  case  such  a  misfortune  should 
occur,  is  sensible  enough  to  treat  such  communications 
as  they  deserve.  An  anonymous  letter  ought  not  to  be 
even  read.  Anyone  so  infamous  as  to  use  arms  of  this 
sort  does  not  deserve  that  one  should  pay  him  the  honor 
of  looking  at  what  he  has  written." 

"  That  is  so,  is  it  not  ? "  she  replied.  Her  eyes  sud- 
denly dilated  with  a  gleam  of  genuine  gi-atitude  which 
convinced  Dorsenne  that  this  time  he  had  seen  aright. 
He  had  used  the  very  words  she  stood  in  need  of. 
With  such  evidence  before  him,  he  felt  a  shock  of  shame 
and  pity — of  shame,  for  having,  in  his  thoughts,  offered 
such  a  gratuitous  insult  to  this  unhappy  soul ; — of  pity, 
because  she  must  have  received  a  cruel  blow,  if  the  com- 
munication really  referred  to  her  mother.  He  no  more 
could  ask  her  such  a  question  than  she  could  have 
shown  such  an  infamous  letter  to  her  mother,  who  often 
said :  "  I  bring  up  my  daughter  on  English  principles, 
in  the  most  perfect  independence."  Very  happy  results 
had  come  from  this  independence  which  permitted  a 
letter  of  such  a  nature  to  reach  the  poor  child !  She 
must  have  received  this  horrible  letter  yesterday  after- 
noon or  this  morning,  for  when  they  visited  the  Cas- 
tagna  Palace  she  had  been  in  turns  gay  and  reserved, 
but  girlishly  so,  while  this  evening  it  was  no  longer 


DANGER  NIGH.  103 

the  girl  who  suffered,  but  the  woman.  Dorsenne 
went  on : 

"  You  may  think  how  we  writers  are  exposed  to  these 
abominable  things !  A  book  that  succeeds,  a  play  that 
pleases,  an  article  one  is  proud  of,  sets  every  envious 
soul  at  work  to  insult  anonymously,  either  ourselves 
or  those  we  love.  In  such  cases,  I  repeat,  I  burn  with- 
out reading;  and  if  ever  in  life  such  a  thing  befalls 
you,  be  sure,  Contessina,  and  follow  the  recipe  of  your 
friend  Dorsenne.  For  I  am  your  friend ;  you  feel  that, 
do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Why ! "  the  girl  exclaimed  with  animation,  "  Why  do 
you  think  that  anyone  would  write  anonymous  letters 
to  me  ?  I  have  no  fame,  nor  beauty,  nor  millions,  nor 
envious  friends.  .  .  ."  And  as  Dorsenne  looked  at 
her  with  regret  at  having  said  too  much  since  she  drew 
back  again,  she  forced  her  sad  lips  to  smile  and  resumed : 
"If  you  are  truly  my  friend,  in  place  of  making  me 
waste  my  time  in  listening  to  advice  of  which  I  think  I 
shall  never  have  need,  unless  I  become  a  great  writer, 
help  me  to  serve  the  tea,  will  you  ?  It  must  be  ready." 
She  raised  in  her  slender  fingers  the  lid  of  the  teapot, 
adding :  "  Pray  ask  Mrs.  Maitland  if  she  will  have  some 
this  evening.  Fanny,  too.  Ardea  likes  his  grog ;  the 
Baron  takes  mineral  water.  We  must  ring  for  his  glass 
of  Vichy.  Thanks.  You  have  made  me  behind  time. 
Here  comes  a  new  visitor,  and  nothing  will  be  ready. 
Why,"  she  cried,  "  it  is  Maud !  "  and  immediately  after- 
ward, with  an  astonishment  which  drew  from  her  a  half- 
exclamation,  "  and  her  husband !  " 

The  folding-door  of  the  hall  opened  to  admit  Maud 
Gorka,  beautiful  with  that  English  beauty  which  is  so 
grand  and  strong,  all  radiant  with  happiness  in  her 
black  China  crape  dress,  with  orange  bows  that  brought 
out  her  fresh,  fine  color.  Behind  her  came  Boleslas, 
He  was  no  longer  the  traveller  who,  thirty-six  hours 
previously,  had  landed  in  the  Piazza  della  Trinita,  mad 
with  anxiety,  frenzied  with  jealousy,  stained  by  the  dust 


104  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  the  train,  with  bristling  hair,  dusty  eyebrows,  and 
dirty  hands.  Somewhat  thinner,  but  not  fatigued,  he 
was  the  elegant  Count  Gorka  whom  Dorsenne  knew, 
the  graceful  man  of  fashion  in  his  evening  dress,  a 
spray  of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  his  button-hole,  his  lips 
smiling,  and  altogether  looking  well.  To  the  writer, 
knowing  what  he  knew,  this  smile,  this  coolness,  was 
more  terrible  than  his  rage  of  the  night  before.  He 
felt  it  from  the  way  in  which  Boleslas  shook  hands.  A 
night  and  a  day  of  reflection  had  undone  his  work,  and 
if  Boleslas  had  played  his  part  in  the  comedy  so  well 
as  to  lull  to  sleep  his  wife's  distrust  and  induce  her  to 
pay  this  visit,  it  was  because  he  had  resolved  to  con- 
sult no  one,  but  to  conduct  the  inquirj'^  himself.  He 
had  succeeded  at  the  first  stroke — and  his  feline  eyes 
had  perceived  the  white  robe  of  Mme.  Steno  on  the 
terrace,  while  Maud,  to  her  happiness,  was  explaining 
the  sudden  resolve  of  her  husband  with  noble  sim- 
plicity. 

"  You  see  what  it  is  to  send  to  an  unreasonable  father 
bad  news  of  our  boy.  I  wrote  that  Luc  had  a  slight 
fever  the  other  day.  He  replied,  asking  about  him.  I 
did  not  receive  the  letter.  He  lost  his  head  and  here 
he  is !  " 

"  I  will  go  and  tell  mamma,"  said  Alba,  who  went  to 
the  terrace  too  slowly  to  please  Dorsenne.  He  had 
such  a  feeling  of  coming  danger  that  he  never  thought 
of  smiling  at  the  perfect  success  of  the  coarse  lie  that 
he  and  Boleslas  had  invented  the  night  before,  of  which 
the  Count  had  said,  with  a  complacency  perfectly  justi- 
fied by  the  result,  that  "  Maud  will  be  so  happy  to  see 
me  that  she  will  believe  anything."  It  was  a  scene  at 
once  simple  and  tragic — with  that  polite  tragedy  where 
events  are  more  alarming  because  they  take  place  with- 
out raising  the  voice,  without  a  gesture,  among  the  con- 
ventional phrases  and  amid  the  surroundings  of  a  fete. 
Two  of  the  spectators,  besides  Julien,  understood  their 
importance — Ardea  and  Hafner.     Neither  of  them  had 


DANGER   NIGH.  105 

the  slightest  illusion  about  the  present  relations  of  Mme. 
Steno  and  Maitland,  any  more  than  about  her  past  con- 
nection with  Gorka.  The  author,  the  Roman  noble,  the 
man  of  business,  in  spite  of  differences  of  age  and  sur- 
roundings, had  all  had  experience  of  analogous  circum- 
stances. They  knew  what  presence  of  mind  can  be  dis- 
played by  a  woman  of  courage  when  she  is  surprised  like 
the  Venetian.  All  three  afterward  declared  that  they 
could  never  have  imagined  a  more  wonderful  coolness,  a 
more  superbly  audacious  serenity,  than  that  of  Mme.  Ste- 
no at  this  trying  moment.  She  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  door- window,  astonished  and  delighted — just 
as  much  as  she  ought  to  be.  Her  blonde  complexion, 
which  the  least  emotion  flushed  with  blood,  retained 
its  delicate  tint  of  rose.  Not  a  quiver  of  her  long  eye- 
lashes, Turkish  in  their  gracefulness,  veiled  her  deep 
blue  eyes,  that  were  illuminated  by  an  internal  radi- 
ance. With  a  smile  that  disclosed  beautiful  teeth  of  a 
color  that  rivalled  the  large  pearls  that  adorned  her 
neck,  with  emeralds  twined  in  her  blonde  tresses,  with 
her  strong  shoulders  visible  in  the  low  cut  of  her  white 
corsage,  with  her  opulent,  yet  refined  figure,  with  her 
splendid  arms  from  which  she  had  removed  the  gloves 
to  feel  the  caressing  kisses  of  Maitland,  and  which 
gleamed  with  more  emeralds,  with  her  gait  marked  by 
a  haughty  certitude — she  was,  in  truth,  a  woman  of  an- 
other age,  the  sister  of  those  radiant  princesses  whom 
the  painters  of  Venice  evoked  under  marble  porticos, 
among  apostles  and  martyrs,  who  are  magnificos  and 
sailors.  She  went  straight  to  Maud  Gorka,  whom  she 
embraced  tenderly  ;  then,  shaking  hands  with  Boleslas, 
she  said,  in  her  rich  voice  that  had  at  times  contralto  pas- 
sages, and  had  been  softened  by  using  the  caressing 
dialect  of  the  lagoons  : 

"  Why,  what  a  surprise !  And  you  could  not  come  and 
dine  with  us  ?  Come,  let  us  sit  down  together  and  you 
can  tell  me  the  whole  Odyssey  of  your  wanderings." 
Then  she  turned  to  Maitland,  who  had  followed  her  into 


106  COSMOPOLIS. 

the  salon,  with  the  double  and  insolent  tranquillity  of  a 
giant  and  a  favored  lover,  and  said,  "  Be  so  good,  my 
little  Linco,  as  to  look  for  my  fan  and  gloves  that  I  have 
forgotten  on  the  arm  of  the  lounging-chair." 

At  this  instant  Dorsenne,  who  had  only  one  fear,  that 
of  meeting  the  eyes  of  Gorka — he  could  not  have  sup- 
ported them — found  himself  again  near  Alba  Steuo.  The 
countenance  of  the  girl,  lately  so  fixed  and  constrained 
with  anguish,  was  now  illumined.  It  seemed  as  if  an 
immense  weight  had  been  raised  from  the  heart  of  the 
pretty  Contessina. 

"  Poor  child,"  thought  the  romance-writer ;  "  she  can- 
not believe  that  her  mother  would  be  so  calm  if  she 
were  guilty.  The  attitude  of  the  Countess  is  the  reply 
to  the  anonymous  letter.  They  have,  then,  written  to 
her  everything.  Heavens !  Who  can  it  be  ?  What  will 
come  of  a  drama  commencing  in  this  fashion  ?  " 

He  fell  into  a  profound  reverie,  not  even  interrupted 
by  the  noise  of  conversations  in  which  he  took  no  more 
part.  Had  he  observed  instead  of  pondered,  he  could 
have  verified  the  truth  respecting  the  author  of  the 
anonymous  letters.  There  it  was  before  him,  clear  as 
the  courage  of  Mme.  Steno  in  confronting  danger — as 
the  blind  confidence  of  Mme.  Gorka — as  the  contemptu- 
ous imperturbability  of  Maitland  before  his  rival,  and 
the  suppressed  rage  of  that  rival — as  the  dexterity  of 
Hafner  in  maintaining  the  general  conversation — as 
the  attentions  of  Ardea  to  the  wealthy  Fanny,  and  her 
emotion — clear  as  Alba's  joy  at  deliverance.  All  these 
faces,  as  Boleslas  entered,  had  expressed  different  senti- 
ments. One  only  had  for  some  minutes  expressed  the 
joy  of  crime  and  the  thirst  of  satisfied  hatred.  But  as 
this  face  was  that  of  the  little  Mme.  Maitland,  the  silent 
creature  whom  he  so  commonly  regarded  as  dull  and  in- 
significant, Dorsenne  paid  no  more  attention  to  it  than 
did  the  other  witnesses  of  this  startling  apparition  of 
the  betrayed  lover.  All  nations  have  a  proverb  to  ex- 
press the  idea  that  no  water  is  worse  than  water  unruffled. 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  107 

"  Still  waters  run  deep,"  say  the  English ;  the  Italians 
say:  "Still  waters  bring  down  bridges."  All  these 
proverbs  would  not  be  true  uitless  we  forget  them  in 
actual  life;  and  the  professional  analyst  of  the  female 
heart  had  utterly  forgotten  them  this  evening. 


V. 

THE  COUNTESS  STENO. 

For  a  woman  less  courageous  than  the  Countess,  and 
one  less  capable  of  looking  a  situation  in  the  face  and 
taking  immediate  action  upon  it,  such  an  evening  as 
she  had  passed  through  would  have  been  the  prelude 
to  one  of  those  nights  of  insomnia  in  which  imagina- 
tion, erroneous  in  its  reasonings,  would  have  experi- 
enced in  advance  the  agonies  of  a  danger  which  was 
only  probable.  These  crises  of  terror,  as  a  rule,  end  in 
resolutions  to  have  recourse  to  trickery,  or  in  the  fore- 
gone conclusion  of  a  lie,  which  is  almost  desperate  in  its 
nature,  and  which  arouses  such  indignation  in  the  man, 
who  cannot  understand  that  hypocrisy  is  the  only 
stronghold  of  the  feebler  sex.  But  the  Countess  Steno 
knew  neither  weakness  nor  fear.  A  creature  of  energy 
and  action,  who  felt  herself  able  to  cope  with  any  dan- 
ger, she  attached  no  importance  to  the  word  "uneasi- 
ness." Consequently  she  slept  as  profoundly  and  as 
restfully  that  night  as  though  Gorka  had  never  re- 
turned with  vengeance  in  his  heart  and  menace  in  hiS 
eyes.  As  early  as  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  she 
could  be  found  in  the  little  salon,  or  more  correctly 
speaking,  office,  which  opened  into  her  bedroom,  busily 
engaged  in  verifying  some  reports  submitted  to  her  by 
one  of  her  men  of  business.  She  had  risen  at  seven 
o'clock,  according  to  her  usual  custom :  she  had  plunged 
into  the  cold  bath  which,  in  winter  and  summer,  she 
used  as  a  means  of  aiding  her  magnificent  circulation. 


108  C0SM0P0LI8. 

She  had  breakfasted  in  English  fashion,  following  the 
principle,  which,  she  insisted,  had  so  far  kept  her  diges- 
tion in  such  magnificent  condition, — on  eggs,  cold  meat, 
and  tea.  She  had  then  made  the  complicated  toilette 
of  a  pretty  woman  and  had  afterward  gone  to  her 
daughter's  apartments,  to  inquire  how  she  had  passed 
the  night.  She  had  written  five  letters — ^for  her  cosmo- 
politan salon  entailed  the  drudgery  of  an  enormous 
correspondence  which  ranged  between  Cairo  and  New 
York,  St.  Petersburg  and  Bombay,  touching  at  Munich, 
London,  and  Madeira,  and  she  was  as  faithful  in  friend- 
ship as  she  was  inconstant  in  love.  Her  large  pointed 
writing,  so  elegant  in  its  precision,  had  covered  page 
after  page,  and  all  this  time  no  thought  of  her  old-time 
lover  had  interfered  with  her  occupation,  except  the  fol- 
lowing :  "  I  have  an  appointment  at  Maitland's  for 
eleven  o'clock.  Ardea  should  be  here  at  ten  to  talk 
over  his  marriage.  I  have  the  accounts  from  Finoli  to 
look  over  and  verify.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Gorka  does 
not  take  it  into  his  head  to  come  this  morning.  .  .  ." 
People  in  whom  the  passion  of  love  is  very  complete, 
but  very  physical,  are  constituted  thus.  They  surrender 
themselves  entirely  and  take  themselves  back  as  entire- 
ly. The  Countess  felt  as  little  pity  as  fear  in  thinking 
of  her  betrayed  lover.  She  had  decided  to  say  to  him : 
"  I  love  you  no  longer !  " — to  say  this  frankly,  clearly 
and  unmistakably,  and  to  offer  him  the  choice  between 
a  definite  rupture  or  a  platonic  friendship.  Her  only 
feeling  on  the  subject  of  this  explanation  was  the  hope 
•that  it  might  be  deferred  until  the  afternoon,  when  she 
would  be  at  liberty — a  feeling  which  did  not,  however, 
prevent  her  from  going  over  with  her  accustomed  cor- 
rectness, the  additions  and  multiplications  presented  to 
her  by  her  steward.  He  stood  in  her  presence,  a  large 
bony  man,  with  bronzed  complexion  and  flabby  cheeks, 
such  as  Bonifazio  paints  in  his  pictures  of  pharisees 
and  wicked  rich  men.  He  was  in  charge  of  the  seven 
hundred  acres  at  Piove,  near  Padua,  which  comprised 


THE   COUT^TESS   STENO.  109 

the  estate  most  favored  by  Mme.  Steno.  She  had  in- 
creased its  revenues  tenfold  by 'draining  a  sterile  and 
oftentimes  fever-breeding-  lagoon,  whose  bottom  lay  a 
foot  below  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  which  had  proved  to 
be  of  wonderful  fertility ;  and  she  discussed  the  prob- 
able workings  of  this  recovered  ground  for  weeks  in  ad- 
vance— with  that  detailed  and  precise  knowledge  of 
i-ural  labor  which  remains  the  true  trait  of  the  Italian 
aristocracy  and  the  permanent  reason  of  its  vitality.  All 
nobility  lasts,  even  without  legal  privileges,  when  it  re- 
mains purely  historical  and  of  the  soil. 

"  Then  you  estimate  the  silkworm  crop  at  fifty  pounds 
of  cocoons  per  ounce  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency,"  replied  the  steward. 

"  One  hundred  ounces  of  yellow ;  one  hundred  times 
fifty  makes  five  thousand,"  resumed  the  Countess. 
"  And  at  four  francs  fifty  centimes  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  five  francs,  your  Excellency." 

"  Let  us  say  then,  twenty-two  thousand  and  five  hun- 
dred," said  the  Countess,  "  and  as  much  more  for  the 
Japanese.  This  will  more  than  cover  our  expenses  for 
the  new  buildings." 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency.    And  then  about  the  wine  ?  " 

"  I  have  decided,  after  what  you  have  told  me  of  the 
condition  of  the  vines,  to  sell  all  that  remains  of  last 
year's  crop  to  Kauffmann's  agent;  but  the  Brentina 
must  bring  not  less  than  six  francs.  You  know  our 
casks  must  be  emptied  and  repaired  before  the  month 
of  August.  If  we  lacked  the  proper  number  this  first 
year,  when  we  are  making  our  wine  with  this  new  ma- 
chinery, it  will  be  very  unfortunate." 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency.    And  what  about  the  horses  ?  " 

"  I  think  this  is  an  opportunity  which  should  not  be 
let  slip,  in  this  matter  either.  My  idea  is  for  you  to 
take  the  express  to  Florence,  at  two  o'clock  to-day. 
You  will  reach  Verona  to-morrow  morning.  You  will 
settle  the  business  immediately.  The  horses  can  be 
sent  to  Piove  that  same  evening.     We  have  finished  our 


110  COSMOPOLIS. 

business  just  in  good  time,"  she  concluded,  as  she  ar- 
ranged the  steward's  papers.  She  replaced  them  in 
their  envelope  and  handed  them  to  him.  Her  hearing 
was  very  acute  and  she  had  just  heard  the  door  of  the 
ante-room  open.  It  would  almost  seem  as  though  the 
fat  administrator  had  carried  away  in  his  bulky  port- 
folio all  the  money  preoccupations  of  this  extraordinary 
woman.  After  having  concluded  this  conversation,  or 
rather  this  monologue,  by  fixing  prices  and  giving 
orders  of  great  precision,  she  turned  with  her  brightest 
and  sweetest  smile  to  welcome  the  new-comer,  who  was, 
happily,  Prince  Ardea.  Turning  to  the  servant,  she 
gave  the  following  order : 

"I  have  business  to  talk  over  with  the  Prince.  If 
anyone  calls  do  not  admit  him,  and  yet  do  not  turn 
him  away  either.  Bring  me  the  card."  Then,  turning 
to  the  young  man,  she  greeted  him  with  great  friendli- 
ness :  "  Well,  Simpaticone  !  "  This  was  a  pretty  little 
nickname  which  she  had  given  him.  "  How  did  you 
pass  last  evening  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  believe  me,"  replied  Peppino  Ardea, 
laughing,  "  I,  who  no  longer  possess  anything,  not  even 
my  own  bed — I  went  to  the  '  Cercle '  and  I  played — I 
staked  some  money,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
won." 

He  was  so  light-hearted  as  he  related  this  childish 
prank,  and  so  truly  boyish,  notwithstanding  the  fact  of 
his  complete  ruin,  that  the  Countess  gazed  at  him,  al- 
most stupefied,  as  he,  but  a  few  moments  before,  had 
gazed  upon  her,  on  his  first  entrance  into  the  room. 
They  knew  themselves  so  little,  and  took  each  other's 
peculiarities  of  character  so  little  into  consideration, 
that  they  were  each  astonished  at  finding  the  other  so 
calm.  Ardea  could  not  understand  why  Mme.  Steno 
was  not  at  least  uneasy  at  Gorka's  return  and  the  con- 
sequent results  which  might  follow.  She,  on  her  side, 
admired  the  young  fellow's  jovial  spirits,  in  spite  of  his 
disastrous  ruin.    He  had  visibly  dandified  himself  that 


THE  COUNTESS   STENO.  Ill 

morning  and  had  made  an  extra,  toilette  with  as  much 
complaisance  as  though  he  had  no  decisive  views  as  to 
his  future  in  contemplation ;  and  his  plaid  vest  was  in 
pleasing  contrast  with  the  color  of  his  shirt,  his  cravat, 
his  yellow  shoes,  and  the  flower  in  his  button-hole. 
All  harmonized  in  making  him  an  amiable  and  incor- 
rigible puppet  of  spiritual  frivolity.  He  had  paid  so 
dearly  for  his  indiscretions  that  the  Countess  suddenly 
found  herself  pitying  him.  She  felt  the  need,  which 
the  stronger  nature  feels  for  the  weaker,  that  of  acting 
for  this  child,  of  helping  him  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
she  immediately  started  the  question  of  his  marriage  to 
Fanny  Hafner.  With  her  usual  good  sense  and  her  in- 
stinct for  always  arranging  everything,  Mme.  Steno  saw 
so  many  advantages  for  everyone  in  this  union  that  she 
felt  a  need  for  hurrying  the  matter  on,  which  was  as  in- 
tense as  though  it  was  a  purely  personal  matter.  This 
marriage  suited  the  Baron  so  well  that  he  had  spoken 
to  her  about  it  for  months  past.  It  suited  Fanny,  who 
could  thus  become  a  convert  to  Catholicity,  with  her 
father's  consent.  It  suited  the  Prince,  who  would,  by 
means  of  it,  be  extricated  from  all  his  troubles.  It 
finally  suited  the  name  of  Castagna.  For  though  Pep- 
pino  was  at  the  present  moment  its  sole  representative, 
by  an  old  tradition  in  the  family,  he  held  a  different 
title  to  that  of  the  patronymical  one  of  Pope  Urban 
VII.,  yet  this  auction  sale  of  the  celebrated  palace  had 
made  so  great  a  scandal  in  the  press  and  in  public  opin- 
ion that  it  would  be  wise  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  if  possi- 
ble. The  Countess  seemed  to  forget  that  she  had  as- 
sisted without  protest  at  the  shady  commencement  of 
this  necessity  for  an  auction.  Did  she  not  know  that 
Hafner  had  bought  up  a  number  of  the  Prince's  bills  of 
exchange  at  a  villainously  low  figure  ?  Did  she  not 
know  the  Baron  well  enough  to  be  sure  of  the  fact,  that 
M.  Noe  Ancona,  the  implacable  creditor,  was  in  reality 
but  the  man  behind  whom  stood  her  terrible  friend  1 
In  a  moment  of  spite  against  the  Baron,  had  she  not 


112  COSMOPOLIS. 

herself  accused  him,  in  Alba's  presence,  of  the  following 
simple  plan  :  hastening  the  definite  catastrophe  of  Ar- 
dea's  ruin,  in  order  to  be  able  to  offer  him  relief,  under 
the  form  of  a  marriage  with  Fanny,  and  to  be  able  at 
the  same  time  to  drive  an  excellent  bargain  ?  Once 
freed  of  the  mortgages  which  encumbered  them,  the 
Prince's  estates  would  regain  their  original  value,  and 
the  imprudent  speculator  would  find  himself  once  more 
as  rich  as  formerly,  if  not  richer !  Was  not  all  this  the 
more  reason  for  conquering  the  young  man's  last  faint 
opposition  to  this  saving  marriage  ? 

"  Come,"  she  said  to  him  after  a  moment's  silence  and 
with  no  other  preamble,  "  let  us  talk  business.  You 
dined  beside  my  little  friend  yesterday,  and  you  had  the 
whole  evening  in  which  to  study  her.  Tell  me,  frankly, 
would  she  not  make  the  prettiest  little  Koman  princess 
who  ever  knelt  in  her  wedding-robes  before  the  Apos- 
tles' tomb  ?  Can  you  not  see  her  in  her  bridal- veil 
stepping  out  of  a  magnificent  carriage,  drawn  by  su- 
perb horses,  all  gifts  from  her  father,  and  hesitating 
for  one  moment,  before  ascending  St.  Peter's  steps  ? 
Close  your  eyes  and  picture  her.  Would  she  be  pretty  ? 
Would  she — tell  me  truly  ?  " 

"  Very  pretty,"  replied  Ardea,  smiling  at  the  tempt- 
ing vision  which  Mme.  Steno  had  called  up,  "except 
that  she  is  not  a  blonde.  Ah,  Countess !  What  a  pity 
that  at  Venice,  five  years  ago  on  a  certain  evening — do 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  How  like  you  that  is,"  she  interrupted  him,  laugh- 
ing very  loudly,  in  her  clear  ringing  tones.  "  You  come 
to  see  me  this  morning,  to  talk  over  a  marriage  which 
was  utterly  unhoped  for  on  account  of  the  reputation 
which  you  enjoy  of  being  a  gambler,  a  night-owl,  and  a 
roue ;  of  a  marriage  which  fulfils,  in  its  completeness, 
the  most  extravagant  conditions,  combining  beauty, 
youth,  intelligence,  fortune,  and  even — a  most  unheard 
of  thing,  for  if  I  know  how  to  read  my  little  friend's 
mind,  I  can  see  the  commencement  of  an  interest  in  you, 


THE   COUNTESS   STENO.  113 

and  a  very  vivid  interest,  too.  And  now,  in  spite  of  all 
this,  it  is  to  me  that  you  are  going  to  make  a  declara- 
tion. Come,  come  !  "  and  she  held  out  a  beautiful 
hand  upon  which  shone  immense  emeralds  for  him  to 
kiss.  "  You  are  pardoned.  But  answer  me — is  it  yes  or 
no  1  Shall  I  make  the  demand  ?  If  it  is  yes,  I  am  going 
to  the  Palace  Savorelli  about  two  o'clock  this  afternoon 
and  I  will  speak  to  my  friend  Hafner.  He  will  speak  to 
his  daughter,  and  it  will  not  be  my  fault  if  you  do  not 
have  their  reply  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning.  Is  it 
yes  ?    Is  it  no  ?  " 

"This  evening!  ,  .  .  To-morrow!  .  .  ."  cried 
the  Prince,  shaking  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  most 
comical  fright.  "  But  I  cannot  decide  like  that.  This 
is  a  trap !  I  come  to  talk  to  you,  to  consult  with 
you.     ..." 

"  And  upon  what  ?  "  said  Mme.  Steno,  with  a  vivacity 
bordering  on  impatience.  "What  can  I  tell  you  that 
you  do  not  know  already?  In  twenty -four  hours,  in 
forty-eight  hours,  in  six  months — what  will  be  changed, 
I  beg  you  to  tell  me  ?  You  must  look  at  things  as  they 
are,  however.  To-morrow,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  the 
following  days,  will  you  be  any  the  less  ruined  ? " 

"  No,''  said  the  Prince.     "  But.     .     .     ." 

"There  are  no  buts  in  the  question,"  she  said,  not  al- 
lowing him  to  talk  any  more  than  she  had  allowed  the 
steward  to  talk.  The  natural  despotism  of  a  powerful 
personality  disdained  to  disguise  itself  in  her  when  it 
was  a  question  of  a  practical  decision  upon  a  subject 
on  which  she  already  held  a  foregone  conclusion, 
"The  only  serious  objection  which  you  could  make  to 
this  marriage  when  I  spoke  to  you  about  it,  six  months 
ago,  was  that  Fanny  was  not  a  Catholic.  I  know  to-day 
that  she  is  anxious  to  become  a  convert.  Let  us  not 
talk  about  that  any  more." 

"  No,"  said  the  Prince.     "But.     .     .     ." 

"As  to  Hafner,"  continued  the  Countess,  "you  will 
tell  me  that  he  is  my  friend  and  that  I  am  partial  to 


114  COSMOPOLIS. 

him ;  but  this  partiality  itself  is  but  an  opinion.  He  is 
precisely  the  father-in-law  that  you  need.  Do  not  shake 
your  head.  He  will  repair  all  that  is  possible  of  your 
fortune.  You  have  been  robbed,  my  poor  Peppino.  .  . 
You  have  told  me  this  yourself.  Become  the  Baron's 
son-in-law  and  you  can  snap  your  fingers  at  the  rob- 
bers. ...  I  know  all  you  would  say.  .  .  ,  There 
is  the  Baron's  origin,  and  that  lawsuit,  ten  years  ago, 
with  all  pettegolezzi,  to  which  it  gave  rise.  But  this  is 
not  common  sense.  The  Baron's  birth  is  lowly.  He 
comes  of  a  Jewish  family — you  see  I  am  not  playing  a 
hidden  game  with  you — but  as  they  have  been  converted 
to  Christianity  for  two  generations,  the  story  of  his 
change  of  religion,  since  his  residence  in  Italy,  is  a  cal- 
umny on  a  par  with  the  rest.  He  has  had  a  trial,  from 
which  he  came  forth  acquitted.  You  do  not  wish  to  put 
yourself  up  as  being  more  just  than  justice,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,  but    .     .    .     ." 

"  What  do  you  want,  then  ?  "  concluded  Mme.  Steno. 
"  You  may  delay  too  long.    As  to  your  estates.     .     ." 

"  Oh !  Let  me  breathe,  give  me  some  air,"  said  Ai-dea, 
who  at  that  moment  took  a  fan  belonging  to  the  Coun- 
tess from  the  table  beside  him  and  commenced  to  fan 
himself.  "  I,  who  have  never  known  in  the  morning 
what  I  would  do  in  the  evening — ^I,  who  have  always 
lived,  like  a  bird  of  passage,  following  every  whim — you 
ask  me  to  take — in  five  minutes — a  resolution  which  will 
affect  my  whole  life  !  " 

"  I  ask  you  to  know  what  it  is  you  want,"  replied  the 
Countess.  "It  is  very  amusing  to  be  a  creature  of 
whims,  when  you  are  sailing  safely.  But  when  it  is  a 
question  of  arranging  one's  life,  such  childishness  is 
very  dangerous.  I  recognize  but  one  thing  myself,  and 
that  is :  to  see  your  end  and  walk  straight  to  it.  Yours 
is  very  clear, — to  get  out  of  your  trouble.  The  way 
by  which  this  may  be  done  is  equally  clear  :  marriage 
with  a  young  girl,  who  has  a  dot  of  five  millions. 
Yes  or  no— will  you  take  her  ?    Ah !  "  she  said,  all  at 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  115 

once,  interrupting  herself,  "  I  will  not  have  a  minute  to 
myself  this  morning,  and  I  have  an  appointment  at 
eleven  o'clock ! "  She  looked  at  the  little  travelling 
clock  which  stood  on  the  table,  and  whose  hands  pointed 
to  half-past  ten.  She  had  heard  the  door  open.  It  was 
the  footman  who  entered  and  stood  before  her,  holding 
a  silver  salver  upon  which  lay  a  card.  She  took  up  the 
card,  looked  at  it  earnestly,  drew  her  lovely  blonde 
eyebrows  into  a  perplexed  scowl,  looked  once  more  at 
the  clock,  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  then  said  :  "  Ask  him 
to  wait  in  the  little  round  salon,  and  say  that  I  will  be 
there  at  once;"  then,  turning  to  Ardea  :  "You  think 
yourself  saved,  but  you  are  not.  I  will  not  permit 
you  to  leave  until  I  return.  I  will  be  gone  but  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour.  Would  you  like  to  look  at  the  news- 
papers ?  At  some  books  ?  Here  they  are.  .  .  .  Will 
you  have  some  tobacco  ?  This  box  is  full  of  cigarettes. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  will  return  and  I  will  expect 
your  answer.  I  must  have  it,  do  you  understand  ?  I 
wish  it.  .  .  ."  And  on  the  threshold  she  turned,  her 
face  wreathed  in  smiles,  making  use  of  a  little  term  of 
patois  common  to  the  northern  part  of  Italy,  and  which 
was  but  a  corruption  of  schiavo,  or  "  your  servant."  She 
said,  gayly,  "Ciao,  Simpaticone  .  .  .  ."  and  left  him. 
"AVhat  a  woman,"  said  Peppino  to  himself,  when 
the  door  had  closed  upon  the  light  dress  which  the 
Countess  wore.  "  Yes,  what  a  pity  that,  five  years  ago  in 
Venice,  I  had  not  been  free !  Wlio  knows  ?  If  I  had 
dared,' when  she  brought  me  back  to  the  hotel  in  her 
gondola,  that  night?  She  had  just  left  San  Giobbe. 
She  had  not  yet  met  Boleslas.  She  would  have  advised 
and  directed  me.  I  would  have  speculated  on  the 
Bourse,  as  she  does,  with  Hafner's  aid.  But  not  in  the 
role  of  a  son-in-law.  I  should  not  have  been  dragged  in- 
to the  conjugal  Rastaquouerisme  .  .  .  And  she  would 
never  have  had  such  vile  tobacco  as  this."  He  had  just 
lighted  a  Virginia  cigarette,  a  present  from  Maitland. 
He  threw  it  away,  with  scant  ceremony,  with  the  mode 


116  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  a  badly  brought  up  child,  and  he  barely  escaped 
setting  fire  to  the  light  matting  which  covered  the 
marble  tiling.  He  passed  into  the  ante-room  to  get  his 
own  tobacco  pouch,  which  was  in  the  pocket  of  the 
light  overcoat  he  had  prudently  donned  on  first  going 
out  in  the  early  morning.  As  he  was  lighting  one  of 
the  cigarettes  which  he  had  taken  from  his  pouch,  and 
which  were  filled  with  a  so-called  Egyptian  tobacco,  a 
mixture  of  opium  and  saltpetre — which  habit  had  made 
more  pleasant  to  him  than  the  purer  Virginia  weeds — 
he  mechanically  glanced  at  the  salver  which  the  servant 
had  laid  on  the  table,  before  leaving  the  room.  The  un- 
known visitor's  card,  for  whom  Mme.  Steno  had  left 
him,  still  lay  upon  it.  Ardea  read,  with  an  astonish- 
ment that  bordered  upon  stupefaction,  these  words : 
"  Count  Boleslas  Gorka." 

"  She  is  more  admirable  than  I  believed  her  to  be,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  re-entered  the  deserted  room. 
"She  had  no  necessity  to  ask  me  not  to  go  away. 
Indeed,  I  will  willingly  remain,  just  to  see  how  she 
looks  when  she  comes  back  from  this  interview.     .     ." 

In  fact,  it  was  Boleslas  whom  the  Countess  found  in 
the  little  round  salon,  which  she  had  purposely  chosen, 
as  being  the  best  place  for  the  stormy  interview  which 
she  foresaw.  It  was  isolated  at  one  extremity  of  the  hall, 
and  was  in  reality  an  extension  built  out  over  the  ter- 
race. This,  with  the  dining-room,  comprised  the  ground 
floor,  or,  better  still,  the  entresol  of  the  hotel.  Mme. 
Steno's  apartment,  as  well  as  the  other  small  salon  in 
which  Peppino  was  waiting,  were  on  the  first  floor,  as 
well  as  the  rooms  reserved  for  the  young  Countess  and 
her  German  governess,  Fraulein  Weber,  who  jiist  then 
was  away,  visiting  her  own  people.  The  Countess  was 
not  mistaken.  The  first  glance  exchanged  the  night 
before  with  Gorka  told  her  that  he  knew  all.  She  had 
suspected  as  much  when  Hafner  had  repeated  Dor- 
senne's  few  indiscreet  words  on  the  Pole's  clandestine 


THE  COUNTESS   STENO.  117 

presence  in  Rome,  She  did  not  look  lightly  upon 
Boleslas'  intentions  this  time,  and  she  no  sooner  looked 
the  matter  fairly  in  the  face  than  she  felt  herself  to  be 
in  peril.  When  a  man  has  been  a  woman's  lover,  as  this 
man  had  been  hers,  with  a  vibrating  communion  of  vo- 
luptuousness unceasingly  renewed  during  the  period  of 
two  years,  that  woman  unconsciously  acquires  a  species 
of  physiological  and  quasi-animal  instinct.  A  gesture 
on  his  part,  the  accent  of  a  word,  a  breath,  a  blush,  or  a 
pallor,  are  signs  for  her  which  her  intuition  translates 
with  an  infallible  certainty.  How  and  why  does  this 
divining  instinct  lend  itself  to  the  absolute  forgetful- 
ness  of  former  caresses  ?  It  is  a  particular  case  of  the 
insoluble  and  melancholy  problem  of  the  birth  and 
death  of  love.  Mme.  Steno  herself  had  no  desire  for 
reflections  of  this  kind.  Like  all  vigorous  and  simple 
creatures,  she  established  the  fact  and  accepted  it.  In 
the  same  manner  she  became  conscious,  the  night  be- 
fore, that  the  presence  of  her  old  lover  did  not  put  in 
vibration  that  intimate  inner  thrilling  which  had  made 
her  so  weak  during  twenty-five  months,  so  indulgent 
to  his  slightest  caprices.  He  left  her  as  cold  as  the 
marble  of  the  bas-relief  of  Mino  da  Fiesole,  let  into 
the  wall,  just  above  the  high  couch  against  which  he 
leaned.  And  he  himself,  notwithstanding  the  flood  of 
lucid  fury  which  swept  over  him  at  that  moment  and 
which  made  him  capable  of  the  greatest  violence — he, 
on  his  part,  had  an  intuition  of  this  complete  insensi- 
bility in  which  his  presence  left  her.  He  had  seen  her 
so  often  in  the  course  of  their  long  intimacy  coming  to 
him  in  these  morning  appointments,  just  about  this 
hour,  in  just  such  toilettes,  so  fresh,  so  supple,  so  young 
in  her  maturity,  so  greedy  for  kisses,  so  riven  by  desire. 
She  had  now,  in  her  blue  eyes,  in  her  smile,  in  her 
whole  person,  a  something,  we  know  not  what,  so  gra- 
cious and  so  inaccessible  at  one  and  the  same  time,  that 
it  roused  in  the  abandoned  lover  a  brutalizing  frenzy, 
a  mad  desire  to  strike,  to  mui"der  the  woman,  who 


118  COSMOPOLIS. 

could  smile  upon  him  with  such  a  smile,  so  that  she 
should  feel,  through  him,  even  though  it  were  pain. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  so  beautiful,  in  the  morn- 
ing light,  softened  by  the  lowered  blinds,  that  she  in- 
spired him  with  a  mad  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms, 
whether  she  would  or  not.  He  had  recognized,  as  soon 
as  she  had  entered  the  room,  the  strong  aroma  of  a 
composition  of  perfumed  ambergris  which  she  used  for 
her  bath,  and  this  little  nothing  had  succeeded  in  exas- 
perating his  passion,  already  roused  by  the  servant 
telling  him  that  Mme.  Steno  had  a  visitor,  and  he  had 
asked  himself,  might  she  not  be  at  that  moment  in  con- 
versation with  Maitland?  These  passionate  but  re- 
strained sentiments  quivered  in  the  accent  of  the  simple 
phrase  with  which  he  greeted  her.  At  certain  times 
the  words  are  nothing ;  it  is  the  tone  which  is  every- 
thing. And  for  the  Countess,  that  of  the  young  man 
was  terrible : 

"  I  am  disturbing  you  ?  "  he  asked,  bowing  and  taking 
but  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  the  hand  which  she  had 
held  out  to  him  upon  entering  the  room.  "  Pardon  me, 
I  thought  to  find  you  alone.  And  if  you  would  rather 
appoint  another  time  for  the  little  conversation  which 
I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  asking  you  for " 

"  But  no,  no,"  she  replied,  hardly  giving  him  time  to 
finish  his  sentence ;  "  I  was  with  Peppino  Ardea,  who 
will  wait  for  me — who  will  wait  for  us,"  she  added,  gently. 
"  And,  besides,  you  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that 
I  always  go  straight  to  any  matter  in  hand.  When  one 
has  anything  to  say,  they  should  say  it  at  once.  Then, 
when  it  happens  that  there  is  nothing  of  much  im- 
portance to  say,  it  is  better  spoken.  There  is  nothing 
like  putting  off  and  keeping  quiet  to  make  the  sim- 
plest explanations  difficult — and  for  making  enemies  of 
the  best  of  friends." 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  in  such  a  disposition," 
replied  Boleslas,  with  an  irony  which  flashed  across  his 
handsome  face  in  a  smile  of  atrocious  hatred.     The 


THE   COUNTESS   STENO.  Ill) 

tranquil  good-humor  which  she  had  displayed  cut  him 
to  the  heart,  and  he  continued,  already  less  master  of  his 
feeling's :  "  It  is,  in  fact,  an  explanation  which  I  flattered 
myself  I  had  the  right  to  demand  of  you,  and  which  I 
do  now  demand." 

"Demand,  mon  cher?"  said  the  Countess,  looking- 
him  straight  in  the  face,  without  lowering  her  jDroud 
eyes,  in  which  this  imperative  word  had  lighted  a  flash 
of  anger.  If  she  had  been  admirable  the  night  before, 
in  her  effrontery  at  the  return  of  her  old  lover,  as  she 
met  him  while  coming  from  her  tete-a-tete  with  her  new 
one,  perhaps  she  was  even  more  so  at  her  second  meet- 
ing, when  she  no  longer  had  the  sustaining  influence  of 
her  coterie  of  friends.  She  was  not  quite  sure  that  the 
madman  who  stood  before  her  was  not  armed,  and  she 
believed  him  fully  capable  of  killing  her,  there,  where 
she  stood,  before  she  could  defend  herself.  But  she  had 
a  role  to  play,  sooner  or  later,  and  she  must  play  it  with- 
out flinching.  She  had  not  spoken  untruly  when  she 
had  said  a  few  moments  ago  to  Peppino  Ardea  :  "  I  rec- 
ognize but  one  thing  myself,  and  that  is — to  see  your 
end  and  walk  straight  to  it."  She  desired  a  definite 
rupture  with  Boleslas.  Why  should  she  hesitate  as  to 
the  means?  He  was  silent,  searching  for  words  in 
which  to  clothe  his  sentiments.     Finally  he  said : 

"  Permit  me  to  go  back  for  three  months,  though  it 
may  be,  it  seems,  a  long  space  of  time  for  a  woman's 
memory.  I  do  not  know  if  you  remember  our  last  inter- 
view ?  Pardon  me.  I  should  say  our  last  but  one  inter- 
view, because  we  saw  each  other  again,  last  evening. 
Do  you  realize  that  the  manner  in  which  we  then 
parted,  does  not  agree  with  the  manner  in  which  we  meet 
again  ?  " 

"  I  realize  it,"  said  the  Countess  with  a  new  burst  of 
wounded  pride  flashing  from  her  eyes,  "  although  I  do 
not  fancy  this  manner  of  explaining  yourself.  This  is 
the  second  time  that  you  pose  as  an  accuser,  and  if  you 
take  this  attitude  it  will  be  useless  for  you  to  continue." 


120  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  Catherine  ! "  This  cry  which  burst  from  the  youngf 
man,  in  whose  heart  anger  was  growing  momentarily, 
decided  her  in  brusquely  bringing  this  interview  to  an 
end. 

"  Well  1 "  she  questioned,  crossing  her  arms  in  so  im- 
perious a  manner  that  he  stopped  short  in  his  unuttered 
menace,  and  she  continued :  "  Listen  to  me,  Boleslas ;  we 
have  wasted  ten  minutes  in  saying  nothing,  for  we  have, 
neither  one  nor  the  other  of  us,  the  courage  to  put  the 
question  between  us,  as  it  is,  as  we  know  it  to  be,  as  we 
feel  it  to  be.  Instead  of  writing  to  me,  as  you  have 
done,  letters  to  which  I  could  not  reply ;  instead  of  re- 
turning to  Rome  like  a  criminal  and  hiding ;  instead  of 
coming  to  me,  as  you  did  last  night,  with  menace  writ- 
ten in  your  face ;  instead  of  intruding  upon  me  this  morn- 
ing, with  the  solemnity  of  a  judge — why  did  you  not 
simply  question  me,  quite  frankly,  like  some  one  who 
knows  that  I  have  loved  him  very  much  ?  Because  we 
were  lovers,  is  that  a  reason  for  detesting  each  other 
when  we  cease  to  be  lovers  ? " 

"  When  we  cease  to  be  lovers  1 "  replied  Gorka.  "  You 
no  longer  love  me  ?  Ah  !  I  knew  it,  I  divined  it  during 
the  first  week  of  this  fatal  absence !  But  to  think  that 
you  would  one  day  tell  me  of  it,  like  that,  in  that  tranquil 
voice,  which  is  a  horrible  blasphemy  on  our  dear  past. 
No ;  I  did  not  believe  it.  I  do  not  believe  it,  even  hearing 
you  say  it.    Ah !  it  is  too,  too  infamous  ! " 

"  And  why  ?  "  interrupted  the  Countess,  lifting  her 
head  more  proudly  still.  "  There  is  but  one  thing  in- 
famous in  love,  and  that  is  a  lie.  Ah,  I  know  well  that 
you  men  are  not  accustomed  to  meeting  true  women, 
those  who  have  the  respect,  the  religion  of  their  senti- 
ments. But  I  have  it,  this  respect ;  I  practise  this  re- 
ligion. I  repeat  to  you  that  I  have  loved  you  very 
dearly,  Boleslas.  I  did  not  hide  it  from  you  in  the  past. 
I  did  not  deny  you.  I  was  as  loyal  to  you  as  truth  it- 
self. I  am  conscious  of  still  being  loyal  to  you,  in  tak- 
ing myself  back  and  in  offering  you,  as  I  have  done,  a 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  121 

true  friendship,  the  friendship  of  man  to  man,  who  asks 
nothing  better  than  to  prove  the  sincerity  of  his  devo- 
tion." 

"  I,  a  friendship  with  you,  I,  I,  I ! ! "  cried  Boleslas. 
"  Have  I  shown  enough  patience  in  listening  to  you  as  I 
have  listened  ?  I  have  watched  you  lying  to  me  and 
flaunting  the  lie  before  me,  in  the  same  breath.  And 
why  do  you  not  ask  me  to  be  filled  with  friendship  for 
the  one  with  whom  you  have  replaced  me  ?  You  take  me 
for  a  blind  man,  and  you  imagine  that  I  did  not  see  this 
man,  Maitland,  alongside  of  you  yesterday,  and  that  I 
did  not  understand  at  the  first  glance  the  role  he  played 
in  your  intimacy  ?  You  did  not  understand  that  I  must 
have  a  strong  reason  for  returning  as  I  did  return  ?  You 
do  not  know,  then,  that  one  does  not  play  with  some  one 
who  loves  you  as  I  love  you  ?  It  is  not  true.  You  have 
not  been  loyal  to  me,  for  you  took  this  man  for  your 
lover  while  you  were  still  my  mistress.  And  you  had 
not  the  right  to  do  so — no — no — no,  you  had  not !  And 
what  a  man !  If  it  had  been  Ardea,  Dorsenne,  no  matter 
who,  so  that  I  need  not  blush  for  you — but  this  brute, 
this  man  who  has  nothing  in  him,  neither  beauty,  nor 
birth,  nor  elegance,  nor  mind,  nor  talent,  for  he  has  no 
talent,  he  has  none!  He  has  nothing  but  his  bull's 
neck! — it  is  as  though  you  had  deceived  me  with  a 
lackey.  No !  It  is  too  hideous  1  Ah,  Catherine  I  Swear 
to  me  that  it  is  not  true.  Tell  me  that  you  do  not  love 
me  any  longer.  I  will  submit,  I  will  go  away,  I  will 
accept  everything,  provided  you  swear  to  me  that  you 
do  not  love  that  man.  But  swear  it,  swear  it  ....  " 
added  he,  seizing  her  hand  with  such  violence  that 
she  let  forth  a  little  cry,  as  she  tore  herself  away  from 
him. 

"  Let  me  go,  you  hurt  me,"  she  cried.  "  You  are  a 
fool,  Gorka,  and  that  is  your  only  excuse.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  swear  to  you.  What  I  feel,  what  I  think,  what  I 
do,  does  not  concern  you  after  what  I  have  told  you. 
Think  what  it  pleases  you  to  think.     But — "  with  the 


122  COSMOPOLIS. 

natural  indigrnation  of  a  woman  in  love,  wounded  througrt 
the  man  whom  she  adores,  "  you  will  never  speak  to  me 
twice  about  one  of  my  friends,  as  you  have  just  spoken 
to  me.  You  have  been  found  wanting — and  I  will  never 
forg-ive  you.  Instead  of  this  friendship  which  I  so 
honestly  offered  you,  we  will  have  nothing  in  common 
hereafter  but  the  mere  civilities  of  society.  This  is  as 
you  wished  it  to  be.  Try  not  to  make  this  also  impos- 
sible. Be  correct,  at  least  in  form.  Remember  that  you 
have  a  wife,  and  that  I  have  a  daughter,  and  that  we 
should  endeavor  to  spare  them  the  counter  stroke  of 
this  sad  rupture.  God  is  my  witness  that  I  would  will- 
ingly have  had  it  otherwise." 

"  My  wife  !  Your  daughter !  "  said  the  young  man  in 
accents  of  intense  bitterness.  "  It  is  truly  a  good  time 
for  you  to  remember  them,  and  for  you  to  put  them  be- 
tween you  and  my  righteous  vengeance !  They  did  not 
worry  you  formerly,  these  two  poor  creatures,  when  you 
commenced  to  make  yourself  beloved  by  me  ?  It  was 
convenient  and  answered  your  purpose,  then,  that  they 
were  friends.  And  I  lent  myself  to  your  plan !  And  I 
accepted  this  baseness — and  to-day  you  take  shelter  be- 
hind these  two  innocent  women !  No ;  that  shall  be  so 
no  longer.  No ;  you  shall  not  leave  me  like  this.  Since 
it  is  the  only  point  in  which  I  can  strike  you,  I  will  strike 
you  there.  I  hold  you  by  that,  do  you  hear,  and  I  will 
hold  you.  Either  you  will  show  this  man  the  door,  or  I 
will  respect  nothing  as  sacred.  My  wife  shall  know  all ! 
Ha !  So  much  the  better !  I  have  been  stifled  by  lies 
too  long  as  it  is !  Your  daughter  shall  know  all !  She 
shall  judge  you  now,  as  she  should  judge  you  some 
day.     ..." 

He  advanced  toward  her  as  he  spoke,  in  a  manner 
and  with  so  fierce  a  gesture,  that  she  recoiled  before 
him.  But  a  few  moments  more  and  this  man  would  put 
his  threat  in  execution.  He  was  about  to  strike  her, 
to  smash  the  objects  around  him,  to  create  a  frightful 
scandal.     She  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  think  of  a 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  123 

more  ready  expedient.  An  electric  button  was  just  at 
her  hand.  She  pressed  it,  while  Gorka  said  to  her, 
laughing  disdainfully : 

"  There  remained  but  this  insult  to  offer  me,  to  call 
your  servants  to  defend  you.     .     .     ." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  replied;  "I  am  not  afraid.  I 
repeat  that  you  are  crazy,  and  I  only  wish  to  prove  it 
by  recalling  you  to  the  reality  of  your  situation.  Ask 
Mdlle.  Alba  to  come  down  to  me,"  she  said  to  the  man 
who  appeared  in  answer  to  her  summons.  This  little 
sentence  was  the  drop  of  ice-water  which  suddenly  dis- 
persed a  furious  jet  of  vapor.  She  had  found  the  only 
means  of  stopping  this  terrible  scene  at  once.  For, 
notwithstanding  the  threat  uttered  but  a  few  moments 
ago,  she  knew  that  Maud's  husband  would  shrink  before 
the  young  girl,  his  wife's  friend,  and  whose  delicacy  and 
sensitiveness  he  knew  so  well.  Though  Gorka  was  cap- 
able of  the  most  dangerous  and  cruel  aberrations  in  an 
access  of  passion,  still  further  exasperated  by  vanity, 
he  still  had  in  him  an  element  of  chivalry  which  would 
silence  and  paralyze  his  frenzy  in  Alba's  presence.  As 
to  the  immorality  of  this  defence  which  brought  her 
daughter  into  her  rupture  with  a  vindictive  lover,  the 
Countess  never  gave  that  a  thought.  She  had  said  to 
herself  so  often :  "  She  is  my  companion,  she  is  my 
friend ! "  that  she  had  ended  by  believing  it.  To  lean 
upon  her  in  this  critical  moment  was  as  natural  as  for 
her  to  offer  her  shoulder  as  a  support  to  her  child  when 
they  were  both  in  swimming  at  Lido  in  summer-time, 
and  they  had  gone  out  a  little  too  far  into  the  sea.  In 
the  tempestuous  indignation  which  overwhelmed  Gorka, 
this  sudden  call  to  the  innocent  Alba  seemed  to  him  the 
last  degree  of  cynicism.  During  the  short  time  which 
elapsed  between  the  departure  of  the  footman  and  the 
young  girl's  arrival,  he  uttered  but  the  following  re- 
peated words  as  he  walked  backward  and  forward,  fol- 
lowed by  the  angry  glances  of  his  former  mistress  : 

"  I  despise  you  !    .    .    .    I  despise  you  !     Oh  !  how  I 


124  COSMOPOLIS. 

despise  you ! "  But  as  he  lieard  the  door  opening  he 
said,  in  a  voice  which  he  endeavored  to  render  calm  : 
"  We  will  continue  this  conversation  some  other  time, 
Madame." 

"  When  it  pleases  you,  Monsieur,"  replied  Catherine 
Steno,  and  she  turned  to  her  daughter,  who  had  just  en- 
tered the  room,  saying- :  "  You  know  that  the  carriage  is 
ordered  for  ten  minutes  to  eleven,  and  it  is  now  the 
quai-ter  before.     Are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  that  I  am,"  said  the  young  girl,  holding 
out  her  hands,  which  were  covered  by  heavily  black- 
stitched,  light  pearl-colored  gloves  which  she  had  just 
finished  buttoning,  and  pointing  to  the  large  black 
tulle  hat  which  formed  a  dark  and  yet  transparent  aure- 
ole around  her  blonde  head.  Her  slight  figure  seemed 
moulded  into  the  perfect-fitting  corsage  which  Maitland 
had  chosen  for  her  portrait ;  it  was  of  dark  blue  material, 
finished  at  the  neck  and  wrists  by  bands  of  a  darker 
shade  of  velvet.  A  man's  white  collar  and  cuffs  gave 
to  this  frail-looking  girl  a  youthful  grace  which  made 
her  look  younger  than  she  really  was.  She  plainly 
showed  that  she  had  come  down  at  her  mother's  bidding 
with  the  haste  and  smile  belonging  to  her  age.  But 
seeing  Gorka's  expression  and  the  feverish  look  in 
her  mother's  eyes,  had  given  her,  once  more,  what  she 
called  by  an  odd  but  just  term,  the  sensation  of  a 
"  needle  in  her  heart,"  a  sharp,  intense  pain  which 
pierced  her  chest  on  the  left  side.  She  had  slept  so 
soundly  after  yesterday  evening,  when  she  had  imagined 
she  found  in  her  mother's  attitude  toward  the  Polish 
Count  and  the  American  painter  a  certain  proof  of  in- 
nocence. She  admired  this  mother  of  hers  so  much ; 
she  thought  her  so  intelligent,  so  beautiful,  so  good, 
that  to  doubt  her  was  an  unsupportable  penance.  And 
she  had  doubted  her  for  months  past.  A  conversation 
on  the  Countess,  which  she  had  overheard  at  a  ball  be- 
tween two  ladies,  who  had  no  idea  that  Alba  was  behind 
them,  had  been  the  commencement  of  this  doubt,  which 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  126 

had  sometimes  diminished  and  sometimes  grown,  which 
she  abandoned  or  took  up  again,  according  to  the  signs, 
such  as  Mme.  Steno's  tranquillity  of  the  day  before,  or 
her  evident  agitation  of  this  morning.  It  was  truly  a 
very  rapid,  instantaneous  impression,  this  passage  of  a 
needle,  which  only  left  a  drop  of  blood  behind  it ;  she 
still  retained  the  smile  which  had  been  on  her  face  as 
she  entered  the  room  as  she  turned  to  Boleslas  and 
asked  him :  "  How  did  Maud  rest  ?  How  is  she  this 
morning  ?    And  how  is  my  little  friend  Luke  ?  " 

"  They  are  very  well,"  replied  Gorka.  The  last  rem- 
nant of  his  anger  had  left  him  suddenly  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  young  girl,  and  only  showed  itself  to  the 
Countess  in  this  phrase,  which  was  in  itself  very  simple, 
but  to  which  his  voice  and  look  imparted  an  extreme 
bitterness  :  "  I  found  them  the  same  as  when  I  left 
them.  Ah!  they  love  me  very  much.  ...  I  sur- 
render you  to  Peppino,  Countess,"  added  he,  as  he 
walked  toward  the  door.  "And  you,  Mademoiselle,  I 
will  give  your  love  to  Maud."  He  had  regained,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  leave  thus,  all  the  nobility  of  bearing 
wliich  a  long  line  of  savage  noblemen,  but  noblemen  for 
all  that,  had  transmitted  to  him.  If  his  manner  of  taking 
leave  of  Mme.  Steno  was  correct,  he  put  a  special  grace 
into  the  deeper  reverence  with  which  he  bade  the  young 
Countess  adieu.  It  was  but  a  little  thing,  but  the  Coun- 
tess was  too  sensitive  not  to  feel  it.  She  was  agitated 
by  it,  she  whom  the  despair,  the  fury,  and  the  threats  of 
this  man  had  so  short  a  time  ago  left  so  impassive  and 
incensed.  All  the  pliability  of  this  Slav  nature,  which 
had  exercised  such  a  charm  over  her,  was  it  not  plainly 
shown  in  the  complete  turn-about  which  he  had  had  the 
tact  to  execute  without  the  least  appearance  of  awk- 
wardness ?  For  one  moment  she  appeared  to  be  vaguely 
humiliated  by  the  victory  which  she  had  just  gained 
over  this  man,  whom  five  minutes  before  she  would 
gladly  have  had  her  servants  turn  out  of  doors.  She 
was  silent,  forgetful  of  her  daughter's  presence,  until 


126  COSMOPOLIS. 

she  was  recalled  to  a  sensation  of  reality  by  hearing  her 
say:. 

"  Then  I  can  go  up -stairs  again  and  get  my  veil  and 
my  umbrella  ?  " 

"  And  you  can  join  me  in  the  little  office,  where  I  am 
going  to  finish  my  chat  with  Ardea,"  her  mother  replied, 
adding :  "  I  may,  perhaps,  have  some  news  to  tell  you  on 
our  way  to  the  studio  which  will  give  you  pleasure." 
She  had  recovered  her  brave  smile,  and  she  had  no  sus- 
picion, as  she  wended  her  way  to  the  little  office  in  which 
Peppino  awaited  her,  that  poor  Alba,  as  soon  as  she 
had  gained  the  privacy  of  her  own  room,  dashed  away 
two  great  tears,  which  stood  upon  her  pale  cheeks,  and 
that  she  had  taken  out  the  infamous  anonymous  letter 
which  she  had  received  the  day  before,  for  the  purpose 
of  reading  it  over  again.  She  already  knew  its  perfidi- 
ous phrases  by  heart.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the 
mind  which  had  composed  it  was  so  infernally  mis- 
guided by  its  desire  for  vengeance  that  it  could  not  ap- 
preciate the  enormity  of  its  crime  in  sending  such  a 
denunciation  to  this  innocent  child  ?    "A  true  friend  to 

Mdlle.  S ,  warns  her  that  she  is  compromising  herself 

more  than  is  proper  for  a  young  and  marriageable  girl, 
in  playing  the  same  role  toward  Mr.  Maitland  that  she 
has  already  played  toward  M.  Gorka.  There  is  a  blind- 
ness so  voluntary  as  to  sometimes  become  a  complic- 
ity. .  .  ."  These  words,  so  enigmatical  for  others, 
were  frightfully  clear  for  the  young  Countess,  and  were 
like  those  in  the  letters  of  which  Boleslas  had  spoken  to 
Dorsenne,  cut  out  from  a  newspaper,  put  together,  then 
pasted  on  a  sheet  of  paper  too  commonplace  to  serve 
as  any  clue.  The  refinement  of  a  diabolical  hatred 
could  be  easily  recognized  in  the  difficulties  which  this 
Judas  was  obliged  to  overcome  to  discover  the  printed 
proper  names,  which  had  no  doubt  been  taken  from  some 
account  of  a  society  event.  O  God!  how  Alba  had 
trembled  in  every  nerve  in  her  body  the  morning  be- 
fore on  first  reading  this  note,  her  emotion  redoubled  by 


THE  COUNTESS  STENO.  127 

the  horror  of  knowing  that  a  hatred  of  such  cowardly 
cruelty  was  hovering  over  her  mother  and  herself ! 
How  the  few  words  exchanged  between  her  and  Dor- 
senne  later  in  the  day  had  given  her  courage,  and  more 
than  all,  the  Countess's  serenity  at  the  unexpected  en- 
trance of  Boleslas  Gorka !  Frail  feeling  of  peace,  which 
was  dissipated  by  merely  seeing  her  mother  and  the 
husband  of  her  best  friend  vis-a-vis  to  each  other,  with 
the  traces  in  their  eyes,  in  their  gestures,  and  on  their 
faces,  of  this  frightful  scene.  The  thought  which  came 
to  her,  "  Why  were  they  thus  ?  What  had  they  said  to 
each  other  ? "  made  her  still  more  unhappy.  All  at 
once  she  crumbled  this  cursed  anonymous  letter  in  her 
hand,  this  letter  which  gave  a  form  and  a  substance  to 
her  sorrow  and  her  suspicion,  and  then  lighting  a 
candle  she  held  the  paper  to  the  flame  and  saw  it 
quickly  reduced  to  black  ashes.  She  crushed  this 
debris,  she  rolled  it  between  her  little  hands,  until  it 
was  nothing  more  than  a  thimbleful  of  ashes,  which 
she  dispersed  to  the  winds  through  the  window.  Then 
she  looked  at  her  gloves,  but  a  few  moments  ago  so  deli- 
cate a  gray,  and  now  streaked  by  this  smoke-colored 
dust.  This  smudge  was  the  symbol  of  the  stain  which 
this  letter,  even  though  it  was  burned,  had  left  in  her 
thoughts.  Even  her  gloves  filled  her  with  horror.  She 
tore  them  from  her  hands  in  her  haste  to  be  rid  of  them, 
and  when  she  descended  to  rejoin  Madame  Steno  it 
was  no  more  possible  to  perceive  on  her  freshly  gloved 
hands  the  traces  of  this  tragic  outburst  than  it  was 
possible  to  discover  under  the  immense  veil  which  she 
had  tied  around  her  hat  the  traces  of  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  She  found  this  mother,  on  whose  account  she  was 
suffering  so  much,  wearing  a  large-brimmed  hat  like 
her  own,  only  the  mother's  was  light,  a  white  veil  tied 
around  it,  from  under  which  her  blonde  hair,  her  blue 
eyes,  and  her  rose-leaf  complexion  took  upon  them- 
selves new  beauty.  Her  robe  was  unmistakably  made 
by  a  tailor,   and  the  material  and  style  were  much 


128  OOSMOPOLTS. 

younger  than  her  daughter's.  She  was  radiant  with 
happiness, 

"  Well,"  she  said  to  Peppino  Ardea,  "  I  congratulate 
you  upon  having  made  up  your  mind.  The  matter  shall 
be  settled  to-day,  and  you  will  thank  me  every  hour  of 
your  life." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  replied  the  young  man,  "  I  am 
going  to  regret  my  resolution  all  the  afternoon.  It  is 
true,"  he  added,  philosophically,  "  I  should  regret  it 
much  more  if  I  had  not  taken  it." 

"  You  have  guessed  that  it  is  a  question  of  Fanny's 
marriage,"  said  Mme.  Steno  to  her  daughter,  some 
minutes  later,  when  they  were  both  comfortably  seated, 
more  like  two  sisters  than  mother  and  daughter,  in  the 
victoria  which  was  carrying  them  to  Maitland's  studio. 

"  Then,"  asked  Alba,  "  you  think  it  will  be  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  replied  Mme.  Steno,  gayly.  "  How  happy  all 
three  of  them  will  be !  That  devil  of  a  Hafner  has  been 
looking  forward  to  this  for  a  long  time.  When  I  think 
that  as  far  back  as  1880,  when  he  came  to  see  me  in 
Venice,  after  his  lawsuit,  and  you  and  Fanny  were 
playing  on  the  balcony,  he  questioned  me  closely  on 
the  Quirinal,  the  Vatican,  the  priestly  world,  and  the 
high  society.  Then,  in  conclusion,  pointing  to  his 
daughter,  he  said :  *  I  will  make  a  Eoman  princess  of 
the  little  one,  you  will  see.'  " 

The  Dogaressa  was  so  happy  at  the  success  of  her 
negotiations,  so  happy  to  be  going,  as  she  was  going,  to 
Maitland's  studio,  behind  her  two  English  cobs,  who 
trotted  along  so  quickly  that  she  did  not  see  Boleslas 
Gorka,  who  stood  on  the  sidewalk  watching  her  as  she 
was  whirled  past  him.  Alba,  for  her  part,  was  so  worried 
by  this  new  and  indisputable  proof  of  her  mother's  uncon- 
sciousness that  she  did  not  notice  the  presence  of  Maud's 
husband  either.  What  had  been  almost  insupportable 
the  day  before  in  the  attitude  which  Baron  Hafner  and 
Prince  Ardea  held  in  connection  with  Fanny,  was  the 


THE   COUNTESS   STENO.  129 

unavowed  presentiment  of  a  sad  analogy  between  tlie 
lying-  atmosphere  in  which  this  poor  young  girl  lived 
and  the  atmosphere  in  which  she  herself  had  formerly 
lived.  This  analogy  seized  upon  her  again,  and  she  felt 
once  more  "the  needle  in  her  heart,"  at  the  remem- 
brance of  what  the  Countess  had  already  told  her  of 
Baron  Justus  Hafner's  designs  on  his  future  son-in-law. 
She  was  filled  with  an  intense  melancholy,  and  she  let 
herself  glide  into  one  of  her  customary  periods  of  brood- 
ing, while  the  Countess  laughingly  related  Peppino's 
indecision.  What  mattered  Boleslas's  fury  at  that  mo- 
ment ?  And  what  could  he  do  against  her  1  The  abso- 
lute indifference  to  the  scene  which  had  just  taken 
place  between  them  could  be  plainly  understood  by 
Gorka,  in  merely  watching  the  victoria  as  it  rolled  past 
him.  For  a  long  time  he  remained  motionless  on  the 
sidewalk,  looking  after  the  broad-brimmed  light  hat 
and  the  broad-brimmed  dark  hat,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
down  the  Rue  du  Vingt  Septembre.  An  idea  flashed 
across  his  mind  suddenly  :  Mme.  Steno  and  her  daugh- 
ter were  going  to  Maitland's  studio  ?  He  no  sooner  con- 
ceived this  cruel  suspicion  than  he  was  possessed  with 
an  insane  desire  to  verify  it  immediately.  He  threw 
himself  into  a  cab,  which  he  had  hailed  as  it  passed 
him  by,  at  the  moment  that  Ardea,  coming  out  from 
Steno  villa,  joined  him,  saying : 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  Can  you  take  me  with  you, 
so  that  we  can  talk  ?  " 

**  Impossible,"  he  replied ;  "  I  have  a  very  pressing 
engagement,  but  in  an  hour's  time  I  may  need  you  to 
do  me  a  favor.    Where  will  you  be  ?  " 

"At  home,"  returned  Peppino.  "Come  and  take 
breakfast  with  me." 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Gorka,  and  standing  up,  he  whis- 
pered in  the  coachman's  ear,  too  low  for  his  friend  to 
hear  what  he  said :  "  Ten  francs  above  your  fare,  if 
you  put  me  down  at  the  corner  of  the  Via  Napoleon 
III,  and  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emmanuele  in  five  minutes." 


130  COSMOPOLIS. 

The  coachman  gathered  up  his  reins,  and  by  some  magi- 
cal twist  of  the  wrist  the  played-out  hack,  who  had  been 
dragging  one  hoof  after  the  other,  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  a  good  and  strong  Eoman  steed,  the  cab 
itself  into  a  carriage  as  light  as  the  swiftest  Tuscan 
carrozzelle,  and  the  whole  thing  disappeared  in  a  trans- 
verse street,  while  wise  Peppino  said  to  himself : 

"  There  goes  a  fine  fellow,  who  would  have  done  bet- 
ter to  have  remained  with  his  friend  Ardea,  instead  of 
running  where  he  is.  That  affair  will  end  in  a  duel. 
.  .  .  If  I  had  not  that  piece  of  foolishness  to  attend 
to,"  and  he  pointed  toward  a  poster  announcing  the 
sale  of  his  own  palace,  "  I  would  take  *  La  Caterina ' 
from  both  of  them.  But  these  little  pleasures  will  keep 
until  after  marriage.  At  this  moment  it  is  opera  serio 
on  all  posters." 

As  we  may  see,  this  sly  dog  of  a  Prince  was  not  mis- 
taken in  the  direction  taken  by  the  cab  which  Gorka 
had  hailed.  It  was  indeed  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
studio  occupied  by  Maitland  to  which  he  was  bound, 
but  not  to  the  studio  itself.  The  crazed  man  wished  to 
prove  to  himself  that  by  exposing  his  misery  he  had 
done  himself  no  benefit,  and  that  hardly  had  she  rid 
herself  of  him  before  she  had  set  out  to  visit  the  other. 
What  good  would  it  do  him  to  know  it  positively,  and 
what  would  this  evidence  prove?  Had  the  Countess 
made  a  mystery  of  these  sittings — these  convenient  sit- 
tings— as  the  jealous  man  had  said  to  Dorsenne  ?  The 
mere  imagination  of  them  burned  more  feverishly  in 
his  veins  than  the  remembrance  of  other  appointments. 
For  of  these  latter,  notwithstanding  the  denouncing 
letters,  notwithstanding  the  fete-d-tete  on.  the  terrace, 
notwithstanding  the  presence  of  the  insolent  "  Linco," 
which  she  had  uttered  before  him,  notwithstanding  the 
scene  through  which  he  had  passed  so  short  a  time  ago, 
he  could  still  doubt  their  existence,  whereas  the  long 
intimacies  of  the  studio  were  a  certainty  to  him.     She 


THE  COUNTESS   STENO.  131 

doted  on  them,  and  at  the  same  time,  by  that  strange 
contradiction  which  is  the  common  sign  of  all  jealous- 
ies, he  was  hungry  and  thirsty  to  make  them  more  ap- 
parent to  himself.  He  left  the  cab  at  the  corner  to 
which  he  had  directed  his  coachman,  and  from  which 
place  he  could  see  the  whole  length  of  the  Rue  Leo- 
pardi,  in  which  was  situated  his  rival's  house.  It  was 
a  large  building  in  Moorish  style,  built  by  the  cele- 
brated Spanish  artist  Juan  Santigosa,  who  had  been 
obliged  to  sell  everything  five  years  before — studio, 
horses,  finished  paintings,  and  commenced  sketches — to 
liquidate  the  debts  contracted  through  his  immense 
losses  at  the  gaming-table.  Florent  Charpon  had 
bought  this  species  of  imitation  Alhambra,  with  its 
arched  doors,  for  a  mere  song,  and  had  rented  part  of  it 
to  his  brother-in-law.  During  the  few  minutes  in 
which  he  stood  on  the  sidewalk  waiting,  Boleslas 
Gorka's  mind  recalled  a  visit  which  he  had  made  the 
preceding  year,  during  one  of  those  circuits  which 
society  women  are  so  partial  to  in  Borne  as  well  as  in 
Paris,  accompanied  by  Mme.  Steno,  Alba,  Maud,  and 
Hafner.  An  unreasonable  instinct  had  made  the 
painter  and  his  painting  antipathetical  to  him  from 
this  first  meeting.  Had  he  any  cause  to  be"?  Just 
then  he  perceived  a  victoria  which  had  turned  into  this 
long  Erue  Leopardi,  and  in  this  victoria  he  saw  Mdlle. 
Steno's  black  hat  and  her  mother's  more  startling  one. 
Two  minutes  later  the  elegantly  appointed  carriage 
had  stopped  before  the  Moorish  mansion,  whose  in- 
tense whiteness  made  it  conspicuous  amid  its  neigh- 
bors (which  were  for  the  most  part  unfinished),  with  a 
sumptuous  insolence.  The  two  ladies  descended,  and 
mounting  the  steps  disappeared  behind  the  door,  which 
was  immediately  closed  upon  them,  while  the  coach- 
man whipped  up  his  horses  and  they  started  off  with 
the  gait  of  beasts  who  knew  they  were  returning  to 
their  stable.  He  held  them  in,  so  that  they  would  not 
become  overheated,   and  the  spirited  cobs  chafed  in 


132  COSMOPOLIS. 

their  harness  to  such  an  extent  that  they  were  soon 
covered  with  foam.  Evidently  the  Countess  and  Alba 
were  to  remain  in  the  studio  for  some  length  of  time. 
What  had  Boleslas  learned  that  he  did  not  already 
know  ?  Did  he  not  cut  a  ridiculous  enough  figure, 
standing  on  the  sidewalk  of  this  square,  in  the  centre 
of  which  stood  the  ruins  of  an  antique  reservoir,  which 
was  called,  for  a  very  doubtful  reason,  the  "  Glory  of 
Marius  ?  "  With  one  glance  the  young  man  took  in  the 
whole  scene ;  the  empty  victoria,  which  was  going 
back  the  way  it  had  come,  the  vast  square,  the  ruin,  the 
line  of  high  houses,  and  lastly,  his  cab.  He  seemed  to 
himself  so  comical  playing  the  spy  upon  something 
which  he  had  been  sure  of,  in  the  first  place,  that  he 
burst  out  into  a  nervous  laugh,  and  he  jumped  into  the 
hack,  giving  his  own  address  to  the  coachman :  "  Palaz- 
zetto  Doria,  Place  de  Venise."  The  cab  started  off 
slowly  this  time,  for  the  man  seemed  to  understand 
that  the  frenzy  of  arriving  hurriedly  had  left  his  cus- 
tomer. By  an  inverse  metamorphosis,  the  valiant  Ro- 
man steed  had  become  once  more  the  common  hack 
horse,  and  the  vehicle  a  heavy,  commonplace  machine, 
which  rolled  along  the  streets  by  the  grace  of  God. 
Boleslas  abandoned  himself  to  this  languor,  the  in- 
evitable reaction  of  an  attack  of  violence  such  as  he 
had  just  undergone.  This  calm  would  not,  could  not, 
last.  The  vision  of  the  studio  in  which  IVIme.  Steno 
was  at  present,  in  company  with  Maitland,  presented 
itself  with  greater  clearness  in  proportion  to  the  dis- 
tance which  he  placed  between  himself  and  it.  He 
saw,  in  fancy,  his  former  mistress  wandering  through 
this  collection  of  tapestries,  armor,  half-finished  stu- 
dies, and  commenced  sketches,  as  he  had  seen  her  so 
often  walking  up  and  do-svn  his  smoking-room,  with 
the  smile  of  a  loving  woman  who  was  anxious  to 
touch — only  touch — the  objects  amid  which  her  lover 
lived.  He  saw  Alba,  sitting  motionless,  and  who  was 
used  as  a  chaperon  in  this  new  intrigue  of  her  mother's, 


THE   COUNTESS   STENO.  133 

with  the  same  naivete  with  which  she  had  formerly 
protected  their  meetings.  He  saw  Maitland,  with  the 
indifferent  look  on  his  face  which  he  had  seen  yester- 
day, this  look  of  the  favored  man,  so  sure  of  his 
triumph  that  he  did  not  even  feel  jealous  of  the  past, 
the  only  consolation  which  could  pour  balm  on  the 
wounded  pride  of  his  outraged  predecessor.  This 
supreme  tranquillity  of  the  one  who  has  replaced  us  in 
the  affections  of  an  unfaithful  mistress  still  further 
augments  our  fury,  if  we  have  the  misfortune  and  the 
unhaijpiness  to  go  through  a  crisis  such  as  Gorka  was 
passing  through  at  that  time.  In  one  moment  this 
calling  forth  of  his  rival  became  something  insupport- 
able. He  was  near  his  own  home,  for  he  had  crossed 
that  magnificent  square  all  encumbered  with  the 
ruins  of  basilicas,  this  Trajan's  Forum,  which  is  domi- 
nated by  St.  Peter's  statue  standing  upon  its  celebrated 
column.  All  around  him  were  the  sculptured  marbles, 
set  up  to  glorify  the  humble  Galilean  fisherman  who 
had  landed,  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  at  the  Port 
of  the  Tiber,  unknown,  persecuted,  begging  perhaps. 
Did  the  thought  or  the  sign  come  to  him,  to  say  with 
the  Apostle :  "  Whither  are  we  going,  Lord  ?  Thou 
alone  hast  the  words  of  eternal  life !  "  But  Gorka  was 
neither  a  Montfanon,  nor  a  Dorsenne,  to  hear  in  his 
heart,  nor  in  his  soul,  similar  teachings.  He  was  a 
man  of  passion  and  action,  who  only  saw  his  passion 
and  his  action  set  in  the  frame  into  which  chance  had 
thrown  it.  A  new  access  of  fury  took  possession  of 
him  when  he  thought  of  Maitland's  attitude  of  the  day 
before.  This  time  he  was  no  longer  master  of  himself. 
He  pulled  the  astonished  coachman  violently  by  his 
coat-sleeve,  and  called  out  to  him  the  address  in  the 
Via  Leopardi  in  so  imperative  a  tone  that  the  horse 
recommenced  the  gait  of  his  first  trip,  and  the  carriage 
rolled  lightly  over  the  pavements.  A  wave  of  tragic 
thought  swept  across  the  young  man's  heaii.  No,  he 
would  no  longer  tolerate  this  affront.     He   was  too 


134  COSMOPOLIS. 

cruelly  wounded  in  the  most  intimate  and  throbbing 
cords  of  his  being,  in  his  love  as  well  as  his  pride. 
One  and  the  other  bled  within  him,  and  still  another 
instinct  urged  him  onward  to  the  step  which  he  was 
about  to  take.  The  old  blood  of  the  Palatines,  about 
which  Dorsenne  was  always  joking  him,  was  boiling  in 
liis  veins.  If  the  Poles  had  furnished  so  many  heroes 
for  the  dramas  and  modem  romances,  they  had  never- 
theless remained,  notwithstanding  the  faults  for  which 
they  had  dearly  paid,  the  most  chivalric  and  bravest 
race  in  Europe.  When  these  men,  endowed  with  so 
ill  -  regulated  and  so  complex  an  excitability,  are 
touched  to  a  certain  depth,  their  thoughts  turn  to 
lighting  as  naturally  as  the  descendant  of  a  long  line 
of  suicides  turns  to  self-destruction.  The  joyous 
Ardea,  with  a  glance  of  his  Italian  eye,  had  perceived 
the  step  to  which  Gorka's  character  would  lead  him. 
A  duel  was  necessary  for  this  betrayed  lover  before 
the  treachery  would  be  bearable.  Either  he  would 
wound,  or  perhaps  kill,  his  rival,  and  his  passion  would 
be  satisfied,  or  he  would  run  the  risk  of  being  killed 
himself,  and  the  courage  which  he  would  display  in 
facing  death  would  permit  him  to  elevate  himself  in 
his  own  eyes.  A  wild  idea  had  taken  possession  of  him 
and  urged  him  on  to  the  Via  Leopardi ;  that  was,  to 
provoke  his  rival  to  mortal  combat  immediately,  and  in 
Mme.  Steno's  presence.  Ah !  that  he  might  have  the 
happiness  of  seeing  her  tremble,  for  she  would  need  to 
tremble  when  she  saw  him  entering  the  studio !  But 
he  would  be  gentlemanly,  as  she  had  so  insolently 
commanded  him  to  be !  He  would  go  under  the  pre- 
tence of  seeing  Alba's  poiirait.  He  would  dissimulate, 
because  he  knew  well  how  to  provoke  a  discussion 
when  the  time  came.  It  is  so  easy  to  start  one,  on  the 
most  simple  question  about  art,  and  from  a  discussion 
a  quarrel  is  so  soon  born.  Any  pretence  would  serve 
him — the  first  study  he  came  across  which  did  not  suit 
him.     He  would  speak  in  such  a  manner  that  Maitland 


THE  COUNTESS   STENO.  135 

would  be  obliged  to  reply  to  him.  The  rest  would 
follow  in  due  course.  But  Alba  Steno  would  be  pres- 
ent ?  Ha !  So  much  the  better  1  It  would  be  so  much 
easier,  if  the  altercation  commenced  in  her  presence,  to 
deceive  his  wife  as  to  the  true  reason  for  this  duel. 
Yes  !  he  would  have  his  way,  let  it  cost  what  it  might, 
and  from  the  moment  that  there  was  an  exchange  of 
seconds  the  American  must  come  forward.  At  any  rate 
Boleslas  knew  how  to  arrange  matters  in  order  to 
make  it  impossible  for  this  rascal  to  remain  long  in 
Rome.  Besides,  if  this  person  had  the  smallest  portion 
of  a  heart,  he  would  understand  from  the  beginning  his 
visitor's  intentions,  and  then  the  affair  would  be  de- 
cided quickly. 

"  Ah !  this  idea  of  revenging  one's  self  on  this  knave 
and  this  jade  is  refreshing  to  one's  blood,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  left  the  hack  and  rang  the  door-bell  of  the 
Moorish  mansion.  "  Mr.  Maitland  ?  "  he  asked  of  the 
footman,  who  immediately  dissipated  his  exaltation  by 
making  a  simple  reply,  the  only  one  which  he  could  not 
brook  in  the  condition  of  frenzy  to  which  he  had 
worked  himself. 

"  Monsieur  is  not  in." 

"  He  will  be  for  me,"  replied  Boleslas.  "  I  have  an 
appointment  with  Mme.  and  Mdlle.  Steno ;  they  expect 
me." 

"  Monsieur's  orders  are  positive,"  replied  the  servant. 
Accustomed  as  were  all  the  servants  charged  with  pro- 
tecting the  artist's  working  hours  to  a  certain  routine  of 
sentinel  duty,  he  nevertheless  hesitated  before  the  lie 
which  Gorka  had  suddenly  bethought  himself  of  utter- 
ing, and  he  was  about  to  yield  before  this  new  insist- 
ance,  when  some  one  looked  over  the  balustrade  of  the 
entresol;  this  person  was  none  other  than  Florent 
Chapron.  Chance  had  decreed  that  this  latter  person 
had  but  a  few  moments  before  sent  for  a  carriage,  in 
order  to  keep  an  engagement  to  take  breakfast  in  the 
city,  and  this  carriage  was  delayed.     At  the  noise  of 


136  C08M0P0LIS. 

wheels  stopping-  in  front  of  the  door  he  had  peered  from 
one  of  the  windows  of  his  apartment  which  looked  out 
upon  the  street.  He  had  seen  Gorka  descend  from  his 
cab.  Such  a  visit  at  such  an  hour,  with  the  persons  who 
were  in  the  studio,  had  seemed  to  him  so  threatening 
that  he  had  immediately  run  out  into  the  passage-way. 
He  had  snatched  up  his  hat  and  his  cane  in  order  to 
justify  his  presence  in  the  vestibule,  under  the  natural 
pretence  of  his  own  outgoing.  He  found  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  staircase  just  in  time  to  stop  the  servant, 
who  had  decided  *'  to  go  and  see,"  and  saluting  Boleslas 
with  more  stifl&iess  than  usual,  said  to  him : 

*'  My  brother-in-law  is  not  at  home,"  and  then  turning 
to  the  footman,  with  the  idea  of  sending  this  witness 
away,  in  case  he  should  have  an  exchange  of  angry 
words  with  his  importunate  visitor,  he  said:  "Nereo, 
run  and  get  me  a  handkerchief  out  of  my  room.  I  have 
forgotten  mine." 

"  These  instructions  could  not  have  been  meant  for 
me,  Monsieur,"  insisted  Boleslas.  "  Mr.  Maitland  gave 
me  an  appointment  for  this  morning,  no  later  than  yes- 
terday evening,  at  Mme.  Steno's,  to  see  Mdlle.  Alba's 
portrait." 

"  There  were  no  instructions  given,"  replied  Florent. 
"I  repeat  that  my  brother-in-law  has  gone  out.  The 
studio  is  closed,  and  it  is  so  much  the  more  impossible 
for  me  to  take  it  upon  myself  to  show  you  Mdlle.  Alba's 
portrait  for  the  reason  that  I  have  not  the  key.  As  to 
Mme.  and  Mdlle.  Steno,  they  have  not  been  here  for  two 
or  three  days,  the  sittings  have  been  interrupted." 

"  This  is  most  extraordinary.  Monsieur,"  replied  the 
other,  "for  the  reason  that  I  saw  them  come  here 
not  five  minutes  ago,  and  saw  their  carnage  go  away 
again."  He  felt  his  anger  rising  against  this  watch- 
dog, who  so  suddenly  stood  on  his  rival's  threshold. 
Florent  on  his  side  was  commencing  to  lose  patience. 
He  himself  was  imbued  with  that  violent  irritability 
which  belongs  to  black  blood,  to  that  blood  which  he 


.    THE  COUNTESS   STENO.  137 

would  not  confess  to,  but  which  nevertheless  showed 
in  his  deep  brown  complexion.  The  attitude  of  Mme. 
Steno's  former  lover  seemed  so  extraordinary  to  him 
that  he  replied  very  briefly,  making  a  movement  to 
open  the  door,  in  order  to  oblige  the  other  to  depart. 

"You  were  mistaken,  Monsieur,  that  is  all."  -* 

"  Do  you  know.  Monsieur,"  replied  Boleslas,  "  that 
you  have  just  spoken  to  me  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  is 
not  exactly  what  I  have  the  right  to  expect  of  you. 
When  one  changes  one's  trade,  one  should  learn  the 
methods  of  it,  at  least." 

"  And  I,  Monsieur,"  replied  Chapron,  "  I  would  be 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  if  when  you  speak  to  me, 
you  would  not  speak  in  riddles.  I  do  not  know  what 
you  mean  by  your  trades,  but  I  do  know  that  it  is  utterly 
unworthy  of  a  gentleman  to  behave  as  you  have  done 
at  the  door  of  a  house  which  is  not  yours,  and  for  rea- 
sons which  are  entirely  incomprehensible  to  me." 

"You  understand  them  very  well.  Monsieur,"  said 
Boleslas,  decidedly  beside  himself,  "  and  it  is  not  with- 
out a  motive  that  you  have  constituted  yourself  your 
brother-in-law's  negro  servant." 

He  had  no  sooner  uttered  this  sentence  than  Flor- 
ent,  utterly  unable  to  contain  himself  longer,  lifted  his 
cane  with  a  menacing  gesture,  which  the  Polish  Count 
stopped  just  in  time  by  seizing  the  switch  in  his  right 
hand.  It  was  like  a  flash,  and  the  two  men  found  them- 
selves once  more  face  to  face,  both  pale  with  fury,  ready 
to  grapple,  ignominiously  no  doubt,  when  the  noise  of 
a  closing  door  on  the  floor  above  them  recalled  them  to 
a  sense  of  their  dignity.  The  servant  came  down-stairs. 
Chapron  was  the  first  to  recover  himself,  and  he  said  to 
Boleslas,  in  a  voice  low  enough  to  be  heard  by  him 
alone  : 

"  No  scandal.  Monsieur ;  is  not  that  your  wish  ?  I  will 
have  the  honor  of  sending  two  of  my  friends  to  see  you." 

"  I,  Monsieur,"  replied  Gorka,  "  will  send  you  two  of 
mine.    You  will  pay  for  your  gesture,  I  swear  to  you." 


138  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  Ha !  as  you  please,"  said  the  other.  "  I  accept  all 
your  conditions  in  advance,  I  only  ask  you  one  thing-, 
however,"  added  he,  "  and  that  is  that  no  name  shall  be 
mentioned.  There  will  be  too  many  people  implicated. 
Let  it  be  agreed  upon  that  we  had  some  words  in  the 
stfiet,  that  we  used  bad  language  to  each  other,  and 
that  I  threatened  you." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Boleslas,  after  a  short  silence.  "  You 
have  my  word." 

"  He  is  a  man,  at  all  events,"  he  said  to  himself  five 
minutes  later  as  he  was  once  more  being  wheeled  away 
in  his  cab,  after  having  given  the  coachman  the  address, 
this  time,  of  the  Castagna  Palace.  "  Yes,  he  is  a  man. 
He  blustered  too  much  a  little  while  ago  to  suit  me,  but 
I  lost  my  self-possession.  I  was  nervous.  Never  mind, 
I  should  regret  giving  this  brave  fellow  a  bad  wound. 
But  patience,  the  other  will  lose  nothing  by  waiting." 


VI. 

THE  INCONSISTENCIES  OF  AN  OLD  CHOUAN. 

While  Boleslas,  crazed  by  jealousy,  was  hastening  to 
Ardea's  house  to  ask,  with  an  almost  savage  joy,  his 
assistance  in  this  most  unreasonable  of  encounters, 
Florent  had  but  one  thought,  that  of  preventing  his 
brother-in-law  from  suspecting  his  quarrel  with  Mme. 
Steno's  dismissed  lover,  and  the  duel  which  was  the 
result  of  it.  His  passionate  love  for  Lincoln  was  so 
strong  that  it  preserved  him  from  the  enervation  which 
usually  precedes  a  first  duel,  especially  when  the  one 
who  is  to  stand  his  ground  has  neglected  all  his  life  to 
make  himself  proficient  in  the  use  of  the  sword  or  the 
pistol.  For  a  weak  fencer,  or  a  poor  shot,  an  encounter 
would  have  presented  itself  in  such  details  to  the  imagi- 
nation that  they  would  lend  to  the  actual  danger,  to 
be  sure,  an  indetermination,  a  vagueness,  which  would 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OP   AN   OLD    CHOUAN.     139 

border  almost  upon  absurdity.  The  man  would  picture 
the  possible  phases  of  the  struggle,  the  probability  of 
an  action  bravely  accomplished.  He  would  think  of  a 
parade,  of  a  way  of  pressing  the  tumbler  of  his  weapon. 
This  would  give  him  a  collected  manner,  which  abso- 
lute ignorance  could  never  attain,  unless  it  was  sus- 
tained by  one  of  those  profound  sentiments  which  are 
stronger  in  us  than  flesh  and  blood.  Such  was  Flo- 
rent's  case.  This  instinct  of  Dorsenne's,  which  was  an 
almost  physical  scent  for  anything  pertaining  to  the 
heart,  was  not  to  be  despised  in  this  case  ;  the  painter 
had  in  his  wife's  brother  a  being  devoted  to  him  to  the 
entire  abnegation  of  self.  He  could  exact  everything 
from  this  Mameluke,  or  rather  slave,  for  it  was  in  real- 
ity this  slave  blood  of  his  ancestors  which  manifested 
itself  in  Chapron  in  such  a  complete  absorption  of  his 
personality.  The  atavism  of  slavery  has  these  two  ef- 
fects, which  are  contradictory  but  in  appearances  :  It 
produces  unfathomable  capabilities  for  sacrifice  or  per- 
fidy. One  and  the  other  of  these  moral  dispositions 
were  found  incarnate  in  the  brother  and  the  sister. 
The  double  character  of  their  race  had  been  distrib- 
uted between  them ;  one  had  inherited  the  virtue  of 
self-sacrifice,  the  other  that  of  complete  hypocrisy. 
But  the  drama  provoked  by  Mme.  Steno's  disorders, 
and  brought  to  a  climax  by  Gorka's  unbridled  frenzy, 
was  about  to  bring  to  the  surface  these  moral  condi- 
tions which  Dorsenne  perceived,  without  thoroughly 
understanding  them.  He  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  Florent  had  developed,  those 
in  which  he  and  Maitland  had  first  met,  how  Maitland 
had  come  to  decide  upon  marrying  Lydia,  in  fact,  of  a 
strange  and  long  history,  which  it  will  be  necessary  to 
at  least  outline  here,  in  order  to  present  clearly  the 
singular  relations  of  these  three  people. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  brutal  allusion  which  Boleslas 
had  made  to  his  black  blood  had  marked  the  moment 
in  which  Florent  had  lost  all  jiatience,  to  the  point  of 


140  rosMOPOLis. 

lifting  his  cane  to  strike  his  insolent  interlocutor.  It 
was,  that  this  original  stain,  hidden  with  the  most  jeal- 
ous care,  was,  for  the  young  man,  as  it  had  been  for  his 
father,  the  vital  point  of  self-love,  a  secret  and  con- 
stant humiliation.  This  drop  of  black,  blood  which 
ran  in  their  veins  was  so  faint  that  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  be  told  of  it  before  it  would  be  suspected,  but 
it  had  been  sufficient  to  make  their  stay  in  America 
more  intolerable  for  both  of  them  from  the  fact  that 
they  were  proud,  and  legitimately  so,  of  their  name — 
a  name  which  the  Emperor  had  mentioned  at  St. 
Helena  as  belonging  to  one  of  his  bravest  officers. 
Florent's  grandfather  was  no  other,  in  fact,  than  the 
Colonel  Chapron  who,  before  the  Dnieper,  when  Napo- 
leon desired  news  of  the  enemy,  had  swam  across  the 
river  on  horseback,  followed  a  Cossack,  overpowered 
him,  and  swinging  him  across  his  saddle  in  front  of 
him,  had  brought  him  back  to  the  French  camp. 
When  the  Empire  fell,  this  hero,  who  was  compro- 
mised in  an  irreparable  manner  in  the  Army  of  the 
Loire,  left  his  country,  and  accompanied  by  a  handful 
of  old  soldiers,  set  out  to  found  in  Alabama — one  of 
the  Southern  States  of  the  Union — an  agricultural  col- 
ony, to  which  these  brave  men  gave  the  name,  which 
is  still  preserved,  of  Areola — a  melancholy  and  lov- 
ing homage  to  that  marvellous  period  which  had,  how- 
ever, constituted  their  real  life.  How  far  away  that 
life  seemed,  even  in  1820!  Who  would  have  recog- 
nized the  brilliant  Colonel,  riding  at  Montbrun's  side, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Grande  Redoute,  in  the  forty-five 
years'-old  planter,  absorbed  in  the  cultivation  of  his 
cotton-fields  and  his  sugar-canes,  who  nevertheless 
made  his  fortune  in  a  very  short  time  by  dint  of  energy 
and  good  sense.  This  success,  which  became  known  in 
France,  was  the  indirect  cause  of  that  other  emigration 
into  Texas,  led  by  General  Lallemand,  and  which  ended 
so  disastrously.  Colonel  Chapron,  as  may  well  be  un- 
derstood, had  not  in  his  European  life  acquired  very 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     141 

ecrupulous  notions  on  the  intimacies  between  the  two 
sexes.  However,  having  made  a  very  pretty  and  sweet 
mulatto  girl — whom  he  had  met  during  a  visit  to  New 
Orleans,  and  afterward  brought  back  to  Areola — a 
mother,  he  became  deeply  attached  to  the  poor  loving 
creature  and  her  son,  more  so  for  the  reason  that,  with 
the  slight  difference  of  the  color  of  his  hair,  the  child 
was  the  picture  of  him,  one  of  those  poi-traits  the  re- 
semblance of  which  was  so  striking  as  to  render  his 
paternity  doubly  certain.  In  fact,  when  dying,  this  old- 
time  man  of  war,  who  no  longer  possessed  relatives  in 
his  native  country,  left  all  his  fortune  to  his  son,  whom 
he  had  baptized,  according  to  a  fancy,  Napoleon. 
While  he  lived,  none  of  the  neighbors  dared  treat  the 
young  man  otherwise  than  as  an  equal.  It  was  not  the 
same  thing  when  the  prestige  of  the  Emperor's  officer 
was  no  longer  present  to  protect  the  boy  against  the 
ra,ce-hatred  which  is  morally  a  prejudice,  but  which  so- 
cially betrays  an  instinct  of  self-preservation  that  is 
an  infallible  surety.  The  United  States  have  become 
great  under  this  condition.  The  mixture  of  bloods 
would  have  dissolved  this  admirable  Anglo-Saxon  en- 
ergy, which  the  struggle  against  a  nature  at  one  and  the 
same  time  too  rich  and  too  rebellious  has  exalted  to 
such  astonishing  greatness.  You  must  not  ask  those 
who  are  the  victims  of  a  parallel  instinct  to  compre- 
hend the  legitimate  injustice  of  it.  They  feel  only  its 
ferocity.  Napoleon  Chapron,  repulsed  in  several  at- 
tempts at  marriage,  foiled  in  his  enterprises,  humili- 
ated in  twenty  little  circumstances  by  the  friends  and 
companions  of  his  father,  became  a  species  of  misan- 
thrope. He  lived  sustained  by  a  twofold  ambition : 
to  see  his  fortune  marvellously  doubled,  and  to  con- 
tract a  marriage  with  a  white  woman.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  reached  his  thirty-fifth  year,  in  1857,  that  he 
realized  the  second  of  his  desires.  During  a  voyage  to 
Europe  he  became  interested  on  board  the  steamer 
in  a  young  English  governess,  who  was  returning  from 


142  OOSMOPOLTS. 

Canada,  recalled  to  England  by  family  troubles.  He 
saw  her  again  in  London.  He  was  able  to  render  her  a 
very  great  service,  which  he  did  with  so  much  consid- 
eration and  delicacy  that  her  heart  was  touched,  and 
she  consented  to  marry  him.  Florent  and  Lydia  were 
bom  to  them,  with  only  the  difference  of  a  year  in  their 
ages.  The  birth  of  the  little  girl  cost  the  mother  her 
life,  just  at  the  outbreak  of  the  War  of  Secession— a 
war  which  compromised  Chapron's  fortune,  but  he,  hap- 
pily for  him,  as  it  turned  out,  in  his  great  desire  to  be- 
come rich  quickly,  had  invested  his  money  on  all  sides. 
He  was  only  partially  ruined.  But  the  loss  prevented 
him  from  returning  to  Europe,  as  he  had  dreamed  of 
doing.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  remain  in  Alabama 
to  repair  his  fortunes,  in  which  he  succeeded  so  well  that 
at  his  death,  which  took  place  in  1880,  his  two  children 
inherited,  each  of  them,  more  than  four  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  The  devoted  father  had  not  shown  his  in- 
tense love  for  his  two  children  alone  in  the  large  fortune 
which  he  had  accumulated  for  them.  He  had  had  the 
courage  to  deprive  himself  of  the  presence  of  these  be- 
ings, whom  he  adored,  to  spare  them  the  humiliations 
to  which  they  would  have  been  subjected  in  an  Ameri- 
can school,  and  had  sent  them,  when  they  were  re- 
spectively eleven  and  twelve  years  old,  to  England — 
the  boy  to  the  Jesuits,  at  Beaumont,  the  girl  to  the 
nuns  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at  Roehampton.  After  re- 
maining four  years  in  these  two  schools  he  had  them 
sent  to  Paris — Florent  to  Vaugirard,  Lydia  to  the  Rue 
de  Varrenne — and  it  was  just  at  that  moment  when, 
after  having  realized  his  four  millions,  he  was  prepar- 
ing to  rejoin  them  and  live  in  a  country  free  from  prej- 
udices, that  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  carried  him  off  while 
he  was  still  young  in  years.  The  double  work  of  labor 
and  sorrow  had  told  on  one  of  those  organisms,  such  as 
the  intermixture  of  black  and  white  blood  often  pro- 
duce, athletic  in  appearance  but  endowed  with  too  keen 
a  sensibility,  and  in  whom  the  vital  resistance  is  not  in 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN    OLD   CHOUAN.     143 

proportion  to  the  muscular  strength.     At  the  time  of 
his  death  Chapron  was  just  fifty  years  old. 

Notwithstanding  the  care  with  which  this  man,  so 
wounded  by  the  stain  of  his  birth,  had  endeavored  to 
surround  his  children  in  order  to  preserve  them  from  a 
similar  trial,  he  had  not  been  able  to  prevent  it,  and 
this  trial  had  come  to  his  son  upon  his  entering  Beau- 
mont. The  few  little  boys  with  whom  Florent  had 
been  brought  into  contact  in  the  hotels  in  which  they 
lived,  or  in  his  walks  during  his  stay  in  America,  had 
already  made  him  feel  the  humiliation  of  his  blood,  from 
which  his  father  had  already  suffered  so  intensely. 
The  twelve-year  old  scholar,  silent  and  excessively  sen- 
sitive, when  he  made  his  first  appearance  on  the  lawn 
of  his  new  college,  carried  in  himself  a  self-love  already 
bleeding  and  throbbing  in  anticipation  of  his  recep- 
tion, and  for  whom  the  delicious  surprise  of  finding 
himself  greeted  by  comrades  of  his  own  age,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  doubt  but  that  he  was  the  same  as 
themselves,  caused  him,  to  throw  aside  his  sullen  mask 
and  show  himself  in  his  true  colors.  A  Yankee's  sharp 
eyes  were  needed  to  discover  under  the  nails  of  the 
handsome  youth,  of  olive  complexion,  the  trace  of  the 
small  drop  of  negro  blood  which  flowed  in  his  veins. 
Between  an  octoroon  and  a  Creole  a  European  would 
never  know  the  difference.  Florent  had  been  intro- 
duced for  what  he  really  was,  the  gi'andson  of  one  of 
the  Emperor's  best  officers.  His  father  had  been  care- 
ful to  represent  him  as  being  French,  and  his  compan- 
ions had  only  seen  in  him  a  scholar  like  themselves, 
coming  by  chance  from  Alabama;  that  meant  from  a 
country  almost  as  chimerical  as  Japan  or  China.  All 
those  who  in  their  first  youth  have  felt  the  overshad- 
owing tortures  of  apprehension,  can  judge  what  was 
the  anguish  of  this  poor  child  when,  after  four  months 
of  a  life  in  common  which  had  blossomed  forth  by  the 
warmth  of  sympathies  without  any  backward  thoughts, 
he  was  told  by  one  of  the  Jesuits,  thinking  it  would  be 


144  COSMOPOLIS. 

pleasant  news  to  him,  of  the  approaching  arrival  of  a 
young  American,  of  young  Lincoln  Maitland.  Years 
afterward  he  recalled  the  intense  ideas  which  had  beset 
him  on  the  day  he  learned  of  the  new-comer's  arrival ; 
and  with  what  trepidation  he  had  started  for  the  re- 
fectory, positive  that  as  soon  as  he  came  face  to  face 
with  this  new  comrade  he  would  receive  that  disdainful 
glance  so  often  given  him  in  the  United  States.  He 
had  no  doubt  that  once  his  origin  was  discovered  the 
friendly  atmosphere  in  which  he  had  lived,  so  much 
to  his  astonishment,  would  be  immediately  changed 
into  an  open  hostility.  He  could  see  himself  again  in 
imagination  crossing  the  yard,  and  suddenly  called  by 
Father  Roberts — he  was  the  master  who  had  previously 
told  him  of  Maitland's  coming — and  his  surprise  when 
Lincoln  Maitland  had  given  him  the  hearty  handshake 
of  a  haK-countryman,  finding  another  in  a  strange  land. 
He  was  to  understand  later  that  the  welcome  was  a  per- 
fectly natural  one,  coming  from  the  son  of  an  English- 
woman, brought  up  entirely  by  his  mother,  and  com- 
ing from  New  York  to  Europe  before  his  fifth  year,  to 
live  in  an  atmosphere  as  little  American  as  possible. 
Chapron  did  not  reason  after  this  fashion.  He  had  a 
very  tender  heart.  The  recognition  entered  into  his 
soul  instantly,  as  passionate  as  had  been  his  childish 
fright  a  few  minutes  ago.  One  week  later,  Lincoln 
Maitland  and  he  were  friends,  and  friends  as  intimate 
as  though  they  had  never  been  separated  during  the 
fifteen  years  of  their  life. 

This  affection,  which  ordinarily  would  have  been  for 
Maitland's  indifferent  nature  but  an  every-day  episode 
in  college  life,  was  to  become  for  Florent  the  most  seri- 
ous and  perfect  sentiment  of  his  life.  These  fraternal 
friendships,  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  delicate 
flower  in  the  heart  of  man,  are  often  thus  fructified  in 
youth.  It  is  the  ideal  age  of  passionate  friendship,  this 
period  between  ten  and  sixteen  years  of  age,  when  the 
heart  is  so  pure,  so  fresh,  so  virginal  still,  so  fruitful  in 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     145 

generous  projects  for  the  future.  The  two  make  plans 
together.  They  conjure  up  in  imagination  a.  com- 
panionship almost  mystical  between  the  friend  from 
whom  you  have  no  secrets,  whose  character  you  see 
under  such  a  brilliant  light  of  nobility,  to  whose  good 
opinion  you  hold  as  the  surest  recompense,  and  whom 
you  innocently  hope  to  resemble.  There  are  between 
these  two  innocent  babies  who  conjointly  puzzle  out, 
side  by  side,  a  problem  in  geometry  or  a  lesson  in  his- 
tory, veritable  poems  of  tenderness,  at  which  the  man 
smiles  later,  on  finding  his  companion  again,  but  so  far 
removed  from  him  by  all  his  tastes,  all  his  ideas,  by 
the  innermost  feelings  of  his  nature — and  he  had 
thought  to  have  him  for  a  brother.  It  sometimes  hap- 
pens, however,  that  in  certain  natures  of  a  particularly 
precocious  and  yet  faithful  sensibility,  this  awaken- 
ing of  an  effective  life  is  so  strong,  so  absorbing,  that 
this  passionate  friendship  lives,  first,  in  spite  of  that 
other  awakening,  that  of  sensuality,  so  disastrous  to  all 
delicate  feelings  ;  then,  in  spite  of  the  first  tumultuous 
social  experience,  no  less  disastrous  to  our  youthful 
ideal.  This  was  Florent  Chapron's  case  ;  whether  it  was 
that  his  character,  at  once  fierce  and  sometimes  submis- 
sive, was  in  a  proper  condition  for  the  abdication  of 
personality  which  love  demands,  whether  it  was  that 
being  far  away  from  his  father  and  his  sister,  and  hav- 
ing no  mother,  his  loving  heart  felt  the  need  of  attach- 
ing itself  to  some  one  who  would  take  the  place  of  his 
family,  or  whether  it  was  that  Maitland  exercised  over 
him  a  special  power,  by  reason  of  the  qualities  in  him 
contrary  to  his  own  ?  Fragile  and  somewhat  delicate, 
was  he  conquered  by  the  strength  and  power  which  his 
friend  brought  to  all  his  exercises  1  Timid  and  volun- 
tarily taciturn,  was  he  dominated  by  the  self-assurance 
of  this  athlete,  with  his  hearty,  ringing  laugh  and  his 
invincible  energy  ?  The  astonishing  talent  which  the 
other  displayed  for  art  from  his  boyhood,  had  that  con- 
quered him,  or  the  sympathy  for  the  troubles,  of  which 


146  COSMOPOLIS. 

he  was  told  in  confidence,  and  which  touched  him  more 
than  they  touched  the  one  who  felt  them  f  Gordon  Mait- 
land,  Lincoln's  father,  had  lost  his  life  at  the  battle  of 
Chancellorsville  during-  the  same  war  which  had  almost 
ruined  Florent's  father.  Mrs.  Maitland,  the  daughter 
of  a  minister  of  a  Presbyterian  church  at  Newport, 
and  who  had  married  her  husband  without  loving  him, 
no  sooner  found  herself  a  widow  than  she  was  possessed 
with  the  one  idea,  that  of  "  going  abroad,"  and  she 
went.  Where  f  To  Europe,  that  vague  and  fascinating 
place,  where  she  imagined  she  would  make  a  sensation 
by  her  wit  and  her  beauty.  She  was  pretty,  vain,  and 
silly,  and  this  voyage  in  search  of  an  indetermined  roJe 
to  play  in  the  Old  World,  reduced  itself  to  passing-  two 
years  going-  from  one  hotel  to  another,  after  which 
she  married  the  second  son  of  a  poor  Irish  lord,  with 
the  new  chimera  of  an  entry  into  this  Olympus  of 
British  aristocracy,  of  which  she  had  dreamed  so  often. 
She  had  become  a  Catholic,  and  her  son  with  her,  in 
order  to  obtain  this  g-ood  result,  which  cost  her  so  dear 
in  the  end.  For  not  only  was  the  ruined  lord  who  had 
g-iven  her  his  name  brutal,  a  drunkard,  and  cruel,  but  he 
added  to  all  his  other  defects  that  of  being  one  of  the 
most  desperate  gamblers  in  the  whole  United  Kingdom. 
He  kept  his  stepson  out  of  the  house,  he  beat  his  Avife, 
and  died  about  1880,  after  having  squandered  the  poor 
creature's  entire  fortune  and  nearly  all  of  Lincoln's. 
Just  then  the  latter,  whose  stepfather  had  naturally  al- 
lowed him  to  go  his  own  gait,  and  who,  since  leaving 
Beaumont,  had  studied  painting  a  little  everywhere — at 
Venice,  at  Rome,  and  at  Paris — found  himself  in  that  city 
as  one  of  the  best  students  in  Bonnat's  studio.  Seeing- 
his  mother  ruined,  without  means,  at  forty -four  years 
of  age,  he  yielded  to  one  of  those  magnificent  impulses 
so  common  to  youth,  and  which  prove,  in  reality,  much 
less  generosity  than  pride  of  life.  Of  his  income  of  fif- 
teen thousand  francs,  which  still  remained  to  him,  he 
had  given  up  twelve  tho'isand  francs  to  his  mother.     I 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD  CHOUAN.     14? 

must  add  that,  in  less  than  a  year  afterward,  he  had 
married  the  sister  of  his  college  fiiend  and  four  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars.  He  had  known  poverty  and  he 
feared  it.  His  good  actions  in  regard  to  his  mother 
served  to  justify  in  his  own  eyes  the  purely  interested 
character  of  this  combination,  which  forever  enfran- 
chised his  brush.  Sometimes  we  find  artists  with  con- 
sciences thus  constituted.  Such  a  one  would  never  par- 
don a  concession  in  art.  He  deemed  the  painters  who 
courted  success  by  a  compromise  in  their  style  as  ras- 
cals, but  he  thought  it  quite  the  natural  thing  to  take 
Mdlle.  Chapron's  two  millions,  though  he  did  not  pre- 
tend to  love  her,  and  now  that  he  had  grown  and  mingled 
among  his  compatriots,  he  was  not  far  from  feeling  tow- 
ard her  the  prejudices  of  her  race.  The  glory  of  the 
Imperial  Colonel  and  his  friendship  for  "  ce  bon  Flor- 
ent,"  as  he  expressed  it,  succeeded  in  glossing  it  all 
over. 

Poor  and  good  Florent  truly !  This  marriage  had 
been  the  realization  of  his  youthful  romance.  He  had 
wished  for  it  after  the  first  week  in  which  Maitland  had 
given  him  that  cordial  handshake  which  had  linked 
them  together.  To  live  in  the  shadow  of  his  friend  who 
had  become  his  brother-in-law  and  his  great  man — he 
dreamt  of  no  happier  destiny.  Maitland's  defects  devel- 
oped in  plenty  as  he  grew  older  and  fortune  and  success 
came  to  him — you  can  recall  the  triumph  of  his  "  Lady 
in  Violet  and  Yellow,"  in  the  Salon  of  1884 — but  found 
J'lorent  as  blind  to  them  as  at  the  time  when  they 
played  cricket  together  in  the  Beaumont  fields.  Dor- 
senne  had  very  correctly  diagnosed  it  as  one  of  j;hose 
hypnotisms  of  admiration  which  artists,  great  and  small, 
often  inspire  in  those  around  them.  Only  the  novelist, 
who  generalized  too  quickly,  did  not  understand  that 
Florent's  admiration  Avas  grafted  on  a  friend  worthy  of 
being  depicted  by  La  Fontaine  or  by  Balzac,  the  two 
poets  of  love ;  one  in  his  sublime  and  tragic  "  Cousin 
Pons,"   the   other  in    the    short   but   divine   fable    in 


1,48  COSMOPOLIS. 

which  is  found  this  verse,  oue  of  the  tenderest  in  the 
language : 

"  Vous  m'Stes,  en  dormant  me  pen  triste  apimru " 

Florent  did  not  love  Lincoln  because  he  admired  him. 
He  admired  him  because  he  loved  him.  He  was  not  so 
foolish  as  to  look  upon  Lincoln  as  the  most  gifted 
painter  who  had  appeared  in  thirty  years.  But  Lincoln 
might  have  had  neither  the  strong  elegance  of  his  in- 
spiration, nor  the  striking  force  of  his  coloring,  nor  the 
ingenious  delicacy  of  his  imagination,  and  all  this 
would  not  have  made  the  other  less  earnest  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  labor  and  glory  of  the  artist.  When  Lincoln 
wished  to  travel,  he  found  his  brother-in-law  the  most 
diligent  of  courriers.  When  he  needed  a  model  he  had 
but  to  mention  the  fact,  and  Florent  immediately  set  out 
to  find  one.  Did  Lincoln  send  one  of  his  pictures  to 
London  or  Paris  ?  Florent  undertook  all  the  expense,  as 
well  as  all  the  packing,  interviewing  the  journalists  and 
the  picture-dealers,  even  going  so  far  as  to  compose 
the  letters  of  thanks  for  the  articles,  in  a  handwriting 
which  had  become  so  similar  to  Lincoln's  that  all  the 
latter  was  obliged  to  do  was  to  sign  it.  Lincoln  had 
expressed  a  desire  to  return  to  Bome.  Florent  had 
bought  the  house  in  the  Via  Leopardi,  and  he  had  ar- 
ranged it,  before  Maitland,  then  in  Egypt,  had  finished  a 
great  study,  commenced  just  at  the  time  of  the  departure 
of  his  other  self.  For  Florent  had  reached  that  point, 
from  mere  force  of  aflfection  for  this  brother  who  had 
been  given  to  him,  that  he  understood  the  painter  as 
well  AS  the  painter  did  himself.  This  word  will  tell  all 
to  those  who  have  lived  in  close  intimacy  with  artists 
and  who  know  what  a  distance  separates  them  from  the 
most  enlightened  amateur.  The  amateur  can  judge  and 
feel.  The  artist  alone,  one  who  has  a  mania  for  the 
brush,  knows,  standing  before  a  painting,  how  it  is 
made,  what  strokes  of  the  brush  had  been  given,  and 
whj',  in  fact  the  trituration  of  the  subject  by  the  work- 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     149 

man ;  this  is  enougli  to  make  the  most  ingenuous  opin- 
ion of  the  dilettante  amount  to  nothing-  in  his  eyes. 
Florent  had  watched  Maitland  painting  so  often,  had 
rendered  so  many  little  effective  services  in  the  studio, 
that  each  one  of  his  brother-in-law's  canvases  were 
living  to  him,  even  to  the  highest  touches.  When  he 
saw  them  hanging  on  the  walls  of  a  gallery,  they  re- 
called an  intimacy  to  him  which  was  his  greatest  joy 
and  his  pride.  Finally,  the  absorption  of  his  personal- 
ity in  that  of  his  old-time  comrade  was  so  complete, 
that  it  had  led  up  to  this  anomal}'^,  which  Dorsenne 
himself,  notwithstanding  his  indulgence  for  psycho- 
logical singularities,  could  not  but  think  almost  mon- 
strous. Florent  was  Lincoln's  brother-in-law,  and  yet 
it  seemed  perfectly  natural  to  him  that  the  latter  should 
have  adventures  outside  of  his  marriage,  if  the  emo- 
tions of  the  adventures  were  useful  to  his  talent. 

Perhaps  this  long  and  incomplete  analysis  will  enable 
the  reader  to  understand  what  emotions  agitated  the 
young  man  while  he  was  ascending  the  stairs  of  his 
house — of  their  house,  his  and  Lincoln's— after  the  un- 
expected dispute  with  Boleslas  Gorka.  It  mitigated, 
at  least  in  his  eyes,  the  severity  of  simple  conscience. 
Chapron  was  too  fanatical  a  friend  to  be  a  very  just 
brother.  It  seemed  very  simple  and  very  legitimate 
that  his  sister  should  be  at  the  service  of  Lincoln's  gen- 
ius, as  he  was  himself.  Besides,  if  since  her  marriage 
with  her  brother's  friend,  this  sister  had  been  the  victim 
herself  of  a  moral  tragedy,  Florent  never  suspected  it. 
Where  could  he  have  learned  to  know  Lydia,  this  silent 
concentrated  nature,  upon  whom  he  had  formed  an 
opinion  once  for  all,  as  is  commonly  the  custom  between 
relations  ?  Those  whom  we  have  known  young  are  like 
those  we  see  every  day.  The  picture  which  they  draw 
of  us  is  nearly  always  what  we  were  at  a  certain  time. 
Very  seldom  what  we  are.  Florent  looked  upon  his  sis- 
ter us  being  very  good,  because  he  had  found  her  so 


150  C0SM0P0LI8. 

formerly;  £is  being  very  sweet-tempered,  because  she 
had  never  put  herself  in  opposition  to  him ;  as  not 
being  very  intelligent,  as  she  did  not  seem  sufficiently 
interested  in  the  painter's  work ;  as  being  vain  and 
frivolous,  because  she  went  out  voluntarily.  As  to  the 
martyr  and  rebel,  hidden  in  this  captive  creature,  op- 
pressed, cnished  between  his  own  blind  partiality,  and 
the  egotism  of  a  contemptuous  husband,  he  did  not 
suspect  even  the  tenible  resolutions  of  which  this 
apparent  resignation  was  capable.  If  he  had  felt  any 
fear  when  Mme.  Steno  commenced  to  interest  herself  in 
Lincoln,  it  had  only  been  on  account  of  the  latter's 
work,  more  especially  that  for  a  year  past  he  had  felt, 
not  a  decadence,  but  a  slight  worry  in  the  artist's  work, 
which  was,  as  a  rule,  too  voluntary  not  to  be  a  little  un- 
even. '  There  is  nothing  constant  in  us,  but  what  is 
accomplished  by  instinct  and  with  a  certain  uncon- 
sciousness. But  Florent  had  seen,  on  the  contrary, 
Maitlaud's  fervor  rejuvenating  under  the  Avarmth  of  this 
little  intrigue.  Alba's  portrait  was  announced  as  a 
splendid  study,  worthy  to  be  placed  side  by  side  with 
the  famous  "  Lady  in  Violet  and  Yellow,"  which  Lin- 
coln's detractors  always  recalled  as  his  only  good  work. 
Besides,  the  painter  had  finished  with  an  unparalleled 
enthusiasm  two  large  studies,  Avhich  had  been  partly 
abandoned.  Before  the  evidence  of  a  feverish  produc- 
tion becoming  more  and  more  active,  why  should  not 
Florent  bless  Mme.  Steno  instead  of  cursing  her,  as  it 
Avas  necessary  for  him  only  to  close  his  eyes  and  to 
know  nothing,  so  that  his  conscience  might  be  untroub- 
led in  his  sister's  presence  ?  But  he  knew  everA^thing 
nevertheless.  The  proof  of  this  was  to  be  found  in  the 
shiver  which  passed  over  him  Avhen  Dorsenne  had  an- 
nounced the  clandestine  arrival  in  Rome  of  Mme.  Steno's 
other  lover,  and  a  more  certain  proof  still  was  the  haste 
with  which  he  precipitated  himself  before  Boleslas,  as 
he  was  preparing  to  parley  with  the  servant.  And  now 
it  was  he  who  had  accepted  the  duel  which  an  exasper-r 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     151 

ated  rival  had  certainly  come  to  propose  to  his  dear 
Lincoln,  and  he  only  thought  of  the  latter. 

"He  must  know  nothing- until  afterward.  .  .  .  Other- 
wise he  would  try  to  take  the  matter  in  his  own 
hands^  and  now  I  have  the  opportunity  of  killing-  or 
at  least  wounding  this  Gorka  for  him.  In  any  case  I 
will  so  arrange  it  that  a  second  duel  will  be  difficult. 
But  first  I  must  make  sure  that  we  did  not  speak  too 
loudly,  and  that  they  did  not  hear  the  clown's  harsh 
voice." 

It  was  in  these  terms  that  he  spoke  of  his  adversary 
of  the  next  day.  A  little  later  on,  and  he  might  bring 
himself  to  look  upon  Gorka  as  unpardonable  in  that  he 
did  not  thank  Lincoln  for  doing  him  the  great  honor  to 
be  his  successor  in  the  Countess's  affections!  Mean- 
while it  may  not  be  unprofitable  to  take  a  peep  into 
the  studio.  When  this  friend,  devoted  to  the  point  of 
complicity,  but  also  to  that  of  heroism,  entered  the 
large  room,  he  saw  at  the  first  glance  that  he  had  cal- 
umniated the  jealous  man  for  his  loud  voice,  and  that 
no  noise  from  below  had  entered  the  peaceful  work- 
room. The  American  painter's  studio  was  furnished  with 
the  harmonious  sumptuousness  that  true  artists,  once 
they  are  rich,  know  how  to  gather  around  them.  The 
great  expanse  of  sky,  seen  through  the  shuttered  bay- 
window,  lighted  up  a  true  Roman  corner  of  that  Rome 
of  to-day  which  gives  witness  of  an  arrested  effort  to- 
ward a  new  city  alongside  of  the  old  one.  An  angle  of 
an  old  garden  could  be  seen,  evidently  mutilated  by  a 
recent  building,  and  a  fragment  of  an  ancient  edifice,  with 
a  church  clock,  a  little  farther  off.  It  was  on  this  back- 
ground of  azure,  of  verdure,  and  of  ruins,  in  a  wider  and 
more  distant  horizon,  but  comjjosed  of  the  same  elements, 
from  which  the  young  girl's  profile  was  to  stand  out ; 
designed  after  the  style,  so  delicately  modelled,  of  Pier 
della  Francesca,  over  whom  Maitland  had  been  so  en- 
thusiastic  for  six  months  past,  to  the  point  of  being 
almost  possessed.    All  great  producers,  of  a  more  com- 


162  COSMOPOLIS. 

posite  than  genial  originality,  have  these  infatuations, 
which  cause  them  to  renew  their  style,  and  make  that  of 
their  momentary  model  their  own.  Maitland  stood  be- 
fore his  easel,  clothed  with  that  correct  elegance  which 
is  the  almost  certain  mark  of  these  Anglo-Saxon  artists, 
be  they  ever  so  much  given  to  whims.  With  his  little 
patent-leather  shoes,  his  fine  black  silk  stockings,  deli- 
ca,tely  dotted  with  red,  his  silk  jacket,  the  clear  pearl 
gray  of  his  cravat,  and  the  spotlessness  of  his  linen,  he 
looked  more  like  a  "  gentleman  "  busy  with  an  amateur 
work  than  the  patient  and  laborious  art -workman 
which  he  was.  But  his  canvases  and  his  studies,  hang- 
ing on  all  sides  amid  the  tapestries,  the  arms  and  the 
hric-a-hrcic,  testified  to  his  patient  labor.  It  was  the 
story  of  a  desperate  energy  in  pursuit  of  an  ever-fleeing 
personality.  Maitland  manifested  in  a  supreme  de- 
gree a  trait  common  to  nearly  all  the  men  of  his  coun- 
try, even  those  who  come  to  Europe  in  their  youth,  the 
intense  desire  of  not  being  found  wanting  in  civiliza- 
tion, which  is  fully  explained  by  this  other  fact,  that  the 
American  is  an  entirely  new  being,  gifted  with  an  in- 
comparable activity  and  deprived  of  traditional  satura- 
tion. He  is  not  born  cultivated,  ripened,  already  virtu- 
ally fashioned,  if  you  can  so  speak,  as  a  child  of  the  Old 
World  is.  He  must  create  himself  entirely  by  his  own 
will.  With  superior  gifts,  but  all  of  them  physical, 
Maitland  was  a  self-made  man  of  art,  as  his  grandfather 
had  been  a  self-made  man  of  money,  as  his  father  had 
been  a  self-made  man  of  war.  He  possessed  in  his  hand 
and  his  eye  two  marvellous  painting  tools,  and,  in  his 
perseverance  in  developing,  a  more  marvellous  tool 
still.  There  was  always  wanting  in  him,  I  cannot  tell 
just  whtit,  of  the  necessary  and  local,  which  gives  to  cer- 
tain very  inferior  painters  the  inexpressible  superiority 
of  a  flavor  of  the  soil.  It  could  not  be  said  he  was  not 
inventive  and  new ;  however,  you  could  see,  in  no  mat- 
ter which  one  of  his  paintings,  that  it  was  a  creation  of 
culture  and  acquisition.    The  studies  scattered  around 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD  CHOUAN.     153 

ib.e  studio  first  showed  the  influence  of  his  first  master, 
the  solid  and  simple  Bonnat.  Then  he  had  been  tempted 
by  the  English  pre-Raphaelites,  and  a  fine  copy  of 
Burne- Jones's  famous  "  Chant  d' Amour  "  testified  of  this 
reaction  to  the  side  of  a  more  subtile  art,  one  more 
penetrated  by  that  poetry  which  professional  painters 
treat  disdainfully  as  belonging  to  a  clique.  But  Lin- 
coln was  too  vigorous  for  the  languors  of  such  an  ideal, 
and  he  very  soon  returned  to  other  schools.  Spain  con- 
quered him  next,  and  Velasquez,  that  whimsical  colorist, 
of  whom  after  a  visit  to  the  Prado  Museum  you  carry 
away  the  impression  that  you  have  just  seen  the  only 
painter  worthy  of  the  name.  The  great  Spaniard's 
transport,  that  despotic  stroke  of  the  brush  which 
seemed  to  draw  out  the  colors  at  once  from  the  back- 
gi'ound  of  the  picture,  to  make  them  stand  out,  in  al- 
niost  solid  lights  ;  his  absolute  absence  of  abstract  in- 
tentions and  his  new  ideas,  which  affected  to  completely 
ignore  the  past,  all  this  suited  Maitland's  temperament. 
To  this  he  owed  his  masterpiece,  "  The  Lady  in  Violet 
and  Yellow,"  a  reduced  copy  of  which,  by  himself,  lighted 
up  the  studio  with  a  splendor  which  obscured  the  rest. 
But  the  uneasy  searcher  was  not  satisfied  yet.  Italy 
held  him  in  bondage,  and  the  Florentine  masters,  those 
painters  inextricably  mixed  up  with  sculptors,  and  who 
confine  themselves  to  the  goldsmith's  art;  the  Polla- 
juoli,  Andrea  del  Castagno,  Paolo  Uccello,  and  last  of  all, 
Pier  della  Francesca.  No  one  would  ever  have  imagined 
that  the  hand  which  had  streaked  with  so  liberal  a 
brush  the  colors  of  "  The  Lady  in  Violet,"  was  the  same 
which  was  outlining  Alba's  portrait  in  so  severe  a  style. 
At  the  moment  of  Florent's  entrance  into  the  studio  this 
work  so  completely  absorbed  the  painter's  attention 
that  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open  ;  neither  did  Mme. 
Steno,  who  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  lazily  lying  on  a 
lounge,  and  so  happy,  gazing  at  the  man  she  loved 
•through  her  half-opened  eyes !  Lincoln  was  not  aware 
of  a   new  presence  until   he  noticed   a  change    come 


154  COSMOPOLIS. 

over  Alba's  face.  Good  heavens !  How  pale  she  was 
this  morning,  seated  in  the  immovability  of  the  pose, 
in  a  large  heraldic  chair,  with  high  sculptured  wooden 
back,  her  hands  clutching  the  griffin's  claws,  which 
formed  the  arms,  her  mouth  so  bitter  in  its  expression, 
her  eyes  so  deep  in  their  steady  gaze !  Did  she  divine, 
what  she  could  not  yet  know,  that  her  destiny  was  ap- 
proaching her  in  the  visitor  who  entered,  and  who, 
having  left  the  studio  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before, 
must  justify  his  return  by  some  pretext : 

"  It  is  I,  coming  back,"  he  said,  "  I  forgot  to  ask  you, 
Lincoln,  if  you  positively  wished  to  purchase  those  three 
drawings  of  Ardea's  at  the  price  at  which  they  offer 
them  1 " 

"  Why  did  you  not  mention  the  matter  to  me  yester- 
day, '  Mon  petit  Linco  ? '  "  interrupted  the  Countess,  "  I 
saw  Peppino  this  morning.  I  could  have  asked  him 
his  lowest  figure." 

"  That  would  avail  nothing,"  replied  Maitland,  laugh- 
ing loudly.  "But  really  he  does  not  confess  to  them, 
my  dear  Dogaressa.  They  form  a  portion  of  some  rare 
h'ic-a-brac,  which  he  has  carefully  kept  out  of  his 
creditors'  clutches,  and  has  scattered  a  little  here  and 
there.  He  has  placed  them  among  seven  or  eight 
dealers  in  antiques,  and  we  can  look  forward  for  the 
next  ten  years  to  hearing  all  the  cockneys  from  my 
country  uttering  these  prophetic  phrases,  'This 
comes  from  the  Castagna  Palace.'  And  what  whistles 
of  astonishment  this  announcement,  made  with  many 
winks,  will  call  forth !  "  He  winked  his  eye  himself  in 
imitation  of  one  of  the  most  celebrated  merchants  of 
hric-cL-brac  in  Home,  with  that  inimitable  gift  of  physi- 
cal imitation  which  distinguishes  all  the  habitues  of 
the  Parisian  studios.  "  For  the  time  being  these  three 
drawings  are  safely  lodged  at  a  huckster's  of  the  Ba- 
buiuo  and  are  authentic." 

"  Except  that  they  may  trade  them  for  the  Yincis," 
said  Florent. 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES  OF  AN   OLD  CHOUAN.     156 

"  And  you  think  that  Ardea  would  make  no  bargain 
with  me  ?  "  asked  the  Countess. 

"  Not  even  with  you,"  said  the  painter.  "  He  had  the 
effrontery  yesterday  evening",  when  I  mentioned  them  in 
his  presence,  to  ask  me  for  the  address,  so  that  he 
could  go  and  see  them." 

"  Then  how  did  you  know  of  their  existence  ?  "  asked 
Mme.  Steno. 

"  Inquire  of  him,"  said  the  painter,  pointing  with  his 
brush  to  Chapron.  "  When  it  is  a  question  of  enriching 
his  old  friend  Maitland's  collection,  he  becomes  more 
business-like  than  the  merchants  themselves.  They 
tell  him  everything.  Vinci  or  no  Vinci,  they  are  of  the 
pure  Lombard  style.     Buy  them  for  me,  I  need  them." 

"I  will  go,  then,"  said  Florent.  "Adieu,  Countess. 
.    .     .     Mademoiselle." 

And  he  bowed  to  Mme.  Steno  and  the  young  girl. 
The  mother  bestowed  on  him  her  sweetest  smile.  She 
was  not  of  the  order  of  mistresses  who  looked  upon 
her  lover's  intimates  as  enemies.  She  enveloped  them 
in  the  opulent  and  happy  sympathy  which  love 
awakened  in  her.  And  besides,  she  was  too  clever  not 
to  know,  as  unlikely  as  was  this  complaisance,  that  Flo- 
rent  approved  of  her  love.  The  intense  aversion  which 
Alba  felt  at  this  moment  for  her  mother's  suspected 
intrigues  was  fully  visible  in  the  curtness  with  which 
she  bowed  her  sullen  head  in  reply  to  the  young  man's 
adieu.  He  took  no  notice  of  this  sulkiness,  as  he 
was  too  happy  in  having  been  able  to  convince  him- 
self, that  no  noise  of  the  dispute  had  penetrated  to  the 
studio. 

"  From  now  until  to-morrow,"  he  thought,  as  he  de- 
scended the  stairs  again,  "there  will  be  nobody  to 
warn  Lincoln.  This  purchase  of  the  drawings  is  a 
happy  thought,  to  show  my  perfect  tranquillity.  Now  I 
must  find  two  discreet  seconds." 

Florent  was  an  unusually  reflective  man,  and  one 
capable  of  acting  with  the  greatest  justness  when  his 


156  '  CO.SMOl»OLIS. 

exalted  love  for  his  brother-in-law  was  not  called  into 
question.  He  had  this  force  of  observation,  habitual  to 
people  whose  self-love,  easily  wounded,  keep  them- 
selves out  of  the  way.  He  put  this  disagreeable  duty 
off  until  later,  and  went  to  breakfast,  at  the  restaurant 
where  he  was  expected,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  In 
fact,  his  host,  a  French  diplomat,  stationed  at  Munich 
and  passing  through  Rome,  had  no  suspicion,  as  he  re- 
plied to  his  guest's  questions  on  Leubach's  most  recent 
pictures,  that  this  young  man,  so  calm,  so  smiling,  had 
on  his  hands  a  probably  mortal  affair  of  honor.  It  was 
only  on  leaving  the  restaurant  after  breakfast  that 
Florent,  after  having  mentally  passed  in  review  a  dozen 
of  his  acquaintances,  resolved  to  make  his  first  venture 
with  Dorsenne.  He  remembered  the  mysterious  advice 
given  him  by  the  novelist,  whose  sympathy  for  Mait- 
land  had  been  publicly  demonstrated  by  an  eloquent 
article.  And  besides,  he  believed  him  to  be  madly  in 
love  with  Alba  Steno.  This  was  one  more  probability 
in  favor  of  his  discretion.  Dorsenne  would  be  quiet  on 
the  subject  of  a  meeting  which,  if  known,  would  inev- 
itably compromise  the  Countess's  name.  It  was  only 
too  clear  that  Gorka  and  Chapron  had  no  earthly  rea- 
son for  disputing  and  fighting  afterward.  Finally, 
about  half -past  two,  that  is  to  say,  three  hours  after  the 
imreasonable  altercation  in  the  vestibule,  Florent  rang 
the  door-bell  of  Julien's  apartment.  The  latter  was  at 
home,  occupied  in  making  the  last  corrections  in  the 
proof-sheets  of  the  "  Poussiere  d'ldees."  His  visitor's 
news  upset  him  to  such  an  extent  that  his  hands  trem- 
bled as  he  aiTanged  his  scattered  papers.  He  called  to 
mind  Boleslas's  presence  on  that  same  lounge,  at  the  same 
hour,  forty-eight  hours  before.  How  fast  the  drama 
would  approach  a  climax  if  that  madman  was  going 
on  in  this  fashion !  He  felt  only  too  keenly  that  Mait- 
land's  brother-in-law  was  not  telling  him  everything. 

"  But  this  is  absurd,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  savagery  and 
folly !    Come,  you  are  not  going  to  fight  each  other  over 


THE   INC0NSI8TENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CIIOUAN.     157 

a  discussion  such  as  you  have  just  told  me  of  ?  You 
were  speaking  together  on  a  street  comer.  You  each 
said  some  hasty  words,  and  then  all  at  once,  seconds  and 
a  duel — Come,  come  !    That  is  nonsense ! " 

"  You  forget  that  I  made  the  great  mistake  of  raising 
my  cane  to  strike  him,"  Florent  interrupted  him  to  say, 
"  and  since  he  desired  a  reparation,  I  owe  it  to  him." 

"  And  you  think,"  said  the  writer,  "  that  the  public 
will  content  itself  with  these  reasons  ?  Do  you  imag- 
ine that  they  will  not  search  out  secret  motives  for  this 
meeting  ?  Understand,  I  do  not  question  you.  I  am 
content  with  what  you  have  confided  to  me.  But  the 
world — well,  it  is  the  world,  and  you  will  not  escape  its 
commentaries." 

"  That  is  precisely  why  I  have  demanded  absolute 
discretion,"  replied  Florent,  "  and  also,  why  I  have 
come  to  ask  you  to  be  my  second.  There  is  no  one  in 
whom  I  have  more  confidence  than  in  you.  This  is  my 
only  excuse  for  the  step  I  have  taken." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Dorsenne.  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  Then  Alba's  image,  which  had  been  before 
him  since  yesterday,  presented  itself  suddenly  and 
more  clearly  to  his  mind.  He  remembered  the  deep 
anguish  which  he  had  surprised  in  the  young  girl's 
eyes,  then  her  evident  relief  when  her  mother  had 
smiled  impartially  upon  Gorka  and  Maitland.  He  re- 
called the  anonymous  letters  and  the  mysterious  hatred 
which  seemed  to  hover  over  Mme.  Steno.  If  this  quar- 
rel between  Boleslas  and  Florent  became  known,  there 
was  no  doubt  in  the  world  that  it  would  go  around  like 
wildfire  that  Florent  was  fighting  for  his  brother-in- 
law,  and  on  account  of  the  Countess.  No  doubt,  either, 
that  the  news  of  the  meeting  would  be  brought  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  young  Coimtess.  This  was  sufficient 
to  cause  the  writer  to  say  :  "  Well,  then,  I  accept !  I 
will  act  as  your  second.  Do  not  thank  me.  We  are 
losing  precious  time.  We  must  have  another  second. 
Of  whom  have  you  thought  ?  " 


158  C0SM0P0LI8. 

"  Of  no  one,"  replied  Florent.  "  I  confess  that  I 
counted  upon  you  to  assist  me." 

"  Well,  let  us  make  out  a  list,"  said  JuUen  ;  "  that  is 
the  best  way,  and  we  can  then  go  over  it." 

Dorsenne  wrote  out  a  certain  number  of  names  and 
they  went  over  them,  following  his  suggestion  so  well 
that  after  a  minute  examination  they  rejected  them  all. 
There  they  were,  in  as  bad  a  fix  as  ever,  when  the  novel- 
ist's eyes  suddenly  lighted  up  and  he  uttered  a  little 
cry,  and  said : 

"  I  have  an  idea !  And  it  is  an  idea !  Do  you  know 
the  Marquis  de  Montfanon  ?  "  he  asked  Florent. 

"  The  one-armed  man  ?  "  replied  the  other.  "  I  saw 
him  once  about  a  little  monument  which  I  was  having 
set  up  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Louis  des  Fran^ais." 

"  He  spoke  to  me  about  it,"  said  Dorsenne.  "  It  was 
for  a  relation  of  yours,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  distant  cousin,"  replied  Florent ;  "  a  Captain 
Chapron,  killed  in  '49,  in  the  slaughter  before  Rome." 

"  That  is  just  the  thing,"  cried  Dorsenne,  rubbing  his 
hands  together.  "  Montfanon  -  shall  be  your  other  sec- 
ond. In  the  first  place,  he  is  an  old  duellist,  while  I 
have  never  been  in  the  field.  That  is  a  very  important 
point.  You  know  the  celebrated  saying :  '  It  is  not 
the  swords  and  pistols  that  kill,  it  is  the  seconds.' 
And  then  if  he  consents  to  manage  the  affair,  he  will 
give  it  more  prestige  than  I  possibly  could." 

"  But  that  is  impossible,"  said  Chapron,  "  the  Mar- 
quis de  Montfanon !  He  would  never  consent.  I  do 
not  exist  for  him." 

"  That  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  cried  Dorsenne. 
"  Let  me  make  the  venture  in  my  own  name,  and  then 
if  he  consents,  you  can  ask  him  yourself.  Only,  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.  Do  not  leave  your  house  until 
ten  o'clock.  Between  now  and  then  I  will  know  what 
I  can  do." 

If  the  novelist  had  shown  in  the  first  moment  a  great 
confidence  in  the  outcome  of  his  strange  attempt,  the 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     159 

confidence  he  felt  had  already  turned  to  absolute 
apprehension,  when  he  found  himself,  half  an  hour 
later,  before  the  house  in  which  the  Marquis  Claude- 
Francois  lived,  in  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of  Rome, 
next  to  the  Capitol  itself,  at  a  comer  of  the  Via  de 
la  Consolation,  with  a  balcony  jutting  out  in  front 
which  aflbrded  a  fine  view  of  the  old  Forum.  How 
many  times  had  Julien,  during  the  past  six  months, 
in  his  visits  to  this  old  man,  so  resigned  to  life,  who 
drowned  his  melancholy  in  the  reminiscent  sentiments 
of  the  past,  contemplated  the  tragic  and  splendid  pan- 
orama of  this  historical  horizon !  At  the  conjurings 
of  the  solitary  recluse,  the  broken  columns  became 
upright,  the  ruined  temples  became  reconstructed,  the 
triumphant  highway  became  clear  of  its  weeds.  He 
spoke,  and  the  formidable  epic  of  the  Koman  legend 
was  evoked,  interpreted  by  this  fervent  Christian,  in 
the  mystical  and  providential  sense  which  everything, 
in  fact,  proclaimed  in  this  place,  where  the  Mamertine 
prison  told  of  Saint  Peter,  where  the  portico  of  Faus- 
tine's  temple  served  as  the  pediment  to  the  Church  of 
Saint  Laurent  in  Miranda,  where  Sainte  Marie  Libera- 
trice  stood  on  the  ancient  site  of  the  Temple  of  Venus 
— "  Sancta  Maria,  libera  nos  a  poenis  inferni  " — always, 
added  Montfanon,  piously,  when  he  spoke  of  it,  and  he 
pointed  out  Titus's  Arch,  which  fulfilled  the  prophecies 
of  our  Lord  against  Jerusalem,  as  the  Basilica  of  Con- 
stantine  proclaimed  the  triumph  of  the  Cross,  while  di- 
rectly in  front  of  them  the  Palatine  thickets  permitted  a 
transient  view  of  a  convent,  which  was  built  upon  the 
ruins  of  the  houses  of  Caesar's  persecutors.  And  below, 
the  curve  of  the  Coliseum  stood  out,  bringing  back  to 
mind  the  eighty-five  thousand  spectators  who  had 
assembled  to  see  the  martyrs  suffer!  Such  were  the 
visions  in  the  midst  of  which  the  ex-pontifical  Zouave 
was  growing  old,  and  as  he  pressed  the  bell  of  the 
third  floor,  Julien  said  to  himself  : 

"  I  am  a  fool  to  come  and  make  such  a  proposition  as 


160  COSMOPOLIR. 

I  am  about  to  make,  to  such  a  man.  However,  it  is  not 
a  question  of  his  being  a  second  in  an  ordinary  duel, 
but  of  stopping-  at  once  an  adventure  which,  in  the  first 
place,  may  cost  two  men  their  lives,  and  Mme.  Steno 
her  honor ;  afterward,  and  finally,  the  peace  of  mind 
of  three  innocent  people,  Mme.  Gorka,  Mrs.  Maitland, 
and  my  dear  little  friend  Alba.  He  is  the  only  one 
who  has  authority  enough  to  manage  the  affair.  It  is  a 
charity  besides.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  is  at  home," 
he  concluded,  as  he  heard  the  noise  of  the  servant's 
footsteps,  who  recognized  the  visitor  and  forestalled 
all  questions : 

"  M.  le  Marquis  went  out  this  morning  at  eight  o'clock. 
He  will  not  be  back  until  dinner-time." 

"  And  do  you  know  where  he  has  gone  ?  " 

"  To  hear  mass  in  a  catacomb  and  to  be  present  at  a 
procession,"  replied  the  valet,  who  took  Dorsenne's  card, 
adding :  "  The  Trappist  Fathers  of  Saint  Calixtus  will 
certainly  know  where  M.  le  Marquis  is  to  be  found.  He 
took  breakfast  with  them." 

"  We  will  try,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  young  man,  partly 
discouraged.  His  carriage  started  in  the  direction  of 
Saint  Sebastian's  Gate,  near  which  are  situated  the  cata- 
combs  and  the  poor  farm  adjoining — the  last  piece  of 
the  papal  domain  in  the  possession  of  the  poor  monks. 
"  Montfanon  must  have  taken  communion  this  morn- 
ing," he  thought,  "  and  at  the  first  mention  of  a  duel 
he  will  refuse  to  listen  further.  However,  this  affair 
must  be  arranged.  It  must  be.  What  would  I  not  give 
to  know  the  truth  about  the  scene  between  Gorka  and 
Florent!  By  Avhat  strange  and  diabolical  change  of 
events  did  the  Palatine  come  to  blows  with  the  latter, 
when  he  had  a  grudge  against  the  brother-in-law  ?  Will 
he  be  furious  when  he  learns  that  I  am  his  adversary's 
second !  Bah  !  After  our  conversation  the  other  day,  we 
are  no  longer  friends.  Good,  here  I  am  already  at  the 
little  church  of  "  Domine,  quo  vadis,"  *  and  I,  I  could 
*  Lord,  where  art  Ihou  going  ? 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CIIOUAN.     161 

easily  say  also  :  '  Juliane,  quo  vadis  ? '  Only  to  do  an 
act  which  is  in  reality  better  than  the  most  of  my  other 
acts,"  he  replied  to  his  own  question.  This  light  and 
easily  moved  soul  had  just  been  touched,  as  it  always 
happened,  by  the  remembrance  of  one  of  the  innumer- 
able pious  leg-ends  which  the  nineteen  centuries  of  Cath- 
olicism have  suspended,  crowned  by  imperishable  roses, 
in  all  corners  of  Rome  and  its  Campagna.  He  had  re- 
called that  touching  story  of  St.  Peter,  fleeing  from  per- 
secution and  meeting  Our  Lord :  "  Lord,  Avhither  art  thou 
going  ?  "  asked  the  apostle.  "  To  be  crucified  a  second 
time,"  replied  the  Saviour,  and  Peter  was  ashamed  of 
his  weakness  and  returned  to  martyrdom.  Montfanon 
himself  had  related  this  sublime  episode  to  the  novel- 
ist, who  lost  himself  anew  in  reflections  on  the  character 
of  the  Marquis  and  the  best  way  of  approaching  him. 
He  forgot  to  look  upon  the  vast  solitude  of  the  Roman 
outskirts,  already  spreading  out  before  him,  and  so 
deep  was  his  reverie  that  he  almost  passed  his  destina- 
tion. A  new  disappointment  awaited  him,  at  this  first 
stage  of  his  journey.  The  monk  who  answered  the  bell 
at  the  gate  of  Saint  Calixtus,  told  him  that  the  Mar- 
quis had  left  there  only  half  an  hour  before. 

"  You  will  find  him  at  the  Basilica  of  Saint  Neree  and 
Saint  Achillee,"  added  the  Trappist;  "  it  is  the  feast  of 
these  two  saints,  and  at  five  o'clock  there  will  be  a  pro- 
cession in  their  catacomb.  It  is  just  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  away  from  here,  near  the  Marancia  Tower, 
on  the  Via  Ardeatina." 

"Am  I  going  to  miss  him  again  ?  "  ruefully  thought 
Dorsenne,  as  he  left  the  carriage  for  the  third  time,  and 
walking  across  the  already  scorched  grass,  gained  the 
opening  by  which  the  subterranean  necropolis — which 
was  dedicated  to  the  two  saints  who  were  the  eunuchs 
to  Domitilla,  the  Emperor  Vespasian's  niece— was 
reached.  Some  ruins  and  a  poor,  miserable  house 
alone  marked  the  place  where  the  magnificent  villa  of 
this   pious  princess  formerly  stood.      The  gate  was 


162  COSMOPOLIS. 

open,  and  as  he  met  no  one  who  coald  give  him  the 
slightest  information,  the  young  man  went  some  little 
way  into  the  imderground  passage.  He  perceived  that 
the  long  gallery  was  lighted  up.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  line  of  lighted  candles,  set  ten  feet  apart,  must 
certainly  mark  the  route  which  the  procession  would 
take,  and  would  also  lead  to  the  central  basilica.  Al- 
though his  anxiety  on  the  outcome  of  his  venture  was 
great,  he  could  not  help  being  impressed  by  the  majesty 
of  the  spectacle  presented  by  the  catacomb  thus  illu- 
minated. The  unequal  niches  reserved  for  the  dead, 
sleeping  in  the  jjeace  of  the  Lord  for  so  many  cen- 
turies, and  cut  into  the  sides  of  the  galleries,  gave  them 
a  solemn  and  tragic  aspect.  Inscriptions  could  be  seen 
cut  into  the  stone,  and  all  spoke  of  the  great  hope 
which  these  first  Christians  nourished,  the  same  hope 
which  animates  so  many  of  the  living  to-day.  Julien 
knew  enough  about  these  symbols  to  understand  the 
significance  behind  which  these  persecuted  ones  of  the 
primitive  Church  hid  their  faith.  They  were  so  touch- 
ing and  so  simple.  The  anchor,  which  denoted  help 
in  the  storm,  the  sweet  dove  and  the  pure  white  lamb, 
symbols  of  the  soul  which  flies  to  heaven  and  the  one 
which  seeks  its  Pastor,  the  phoenix,  whose  outspread 
wings  symbolized  the  resurrection,  the  bread  and  the 
wine,  the  olive  branch,  the  palm,  and  the  fish,  the 
"  Ix^us,"  formed  after  the  first  letters  of  Our  Lord's 
titles :  "  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  Saviour."  What  com- 
pleted the  almost  fantastic  charm  of  this  silent  ceme- 
tery of  the  martyrs,  was  the  faint  aroma  of  the  incense 
which  Dorsenne  had  breathed  since  his  entrance.  The 
high  mass  celebrated  in  the  morning  had  left  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  that  sacred  perfume,  wafted  among  the 
bones  which  had  formerly  been  living,  breathing  mor- 
tals, kneeling  in  the  midst  of  the  same  sacred  aroma. 
The  contrast  was  so  strong  between  this  scene,  which 
spoke  of  things  eternal,  and  the  drama  of  worldly  and 
guilty  i^assion,  which  was  the  subject  of  his  anxiety, 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN    OLD   CHOUAN.     163 

that  the  writer  was  completely  unnerved.  He  felt  him- 
self a  profaner,  though  he  was  obeying  a  most  gen- 
erous and  humane  impulse.  He  experienced  a  sensa- 
tion of  relief,  when  in  a  turn  of  one  of  the  galleries 
which  he  had  taken  by  chance,  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  a  priest,  who  carried  a  basket  filled  with 
beautiful  loose  flowers,  that  were  evidently  intended 
for  use  in  the  procession.  He  asked  him  the  way  to 
the  basilica  in  Italian,  and  as  the  other  replied  to 
him  in  perfect  French,  he  questioned  him  in  that  lan- 
guage : 

"  You  know  M.  le  Marquis  de  Montfanon,  perhaps^ 
my  father  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  chaplains  of  Saint  Louis,"  said  the 
priest,  smiling ;  and  he  added,  "  You  will  find  him  in 
the  basilica  itself." 

"  Well,  the  moment  has  come,"  thought  Dorsenne. 
"  Be  careful.  After  all,  it  is  an  act  of  charity  which  I 
am  going  to  ask  him  to  j)erform.  Here  I  am.  I  recog- 
nize the  staircase  and  the  opening  below  it." 

A  glimpse  of  the  sky  could  be  seen  shedding  a  bright 
light,  which  soon  enabled  the  writer  to  distinguish  the  per- 
son he  was  in  search  of  among  the  few  people  gathered 
together  in  this  ruined  chapel,  the  most  remarkable  in 
its  antiquit}'^  among  all  those  which  surround  Rome  as 
with  a  girdle  of  hidden  sanctuaries.  Montfanon,  who 
was  easily  known,  alas,  by  the  empty  sleeve  of  his  black 
coat,  folded  under  the  mutilated  stump  of  his  arm, 
was  seated  on  a  chair  not  very  far  from  the  altar,  on 
which  were  burning  tall  wax  candles,  with  flickering 
flames.  Priests  and  monks  were  arranging  baskets  filled 
with  flowers  similar  to  those  which  the  chaplain  whom 
Dorsenne  had  met  was  carrying.  A  group  of  three 
tourists  were  commenting,  in  a  low  voice,  on  the  paint- 
ings, which  were  hardly  visible  on  the  discolored  stucco 
of  the  ceiling.  Montfanon  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his 
book,  which  he  held  in  his  only  hand.  The  grand  feat- 
.  ures  of  his  face,  ennobled  and  almost  transfigured  by  the 


164  COSMOPOLIS. 

ardor  of  his  devotion,  gave  him  the  beautiful  expression 
of  an  old  Christian  soldier,  **  Bonus  miles  Christi  "  had 
been  written  on  the  tomb  of  the  chief  behind  whom  he 
had  fallen  wounded  at  Patay.  You  could  say  of  him 
that  he  was  a  lay  guardian  of  the  martyrs'  tombs,  capa- 
ble of  confessing  his  faith  like  them,  and  of  giving  up 
his  life.  And  when  Julien  finally  decided  to  disturb  him, 
and  touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder,  he  saw  that  the 
old  nobleman's  eyes,  usually  so  gay  and  yet  sometimes 
so  wrathful,  shone  with  the  humidity  of  half-shed  tears. 
His  voice,  also,  that  thrilling  voice,  was  softened  by  the 
emotion  of  his  thoughts,  which  the  reading,  the  place, 
the  hour,  the  employment  of  his  day,  had  awakened  in 
him. 

"Ah!  there  you  are,"  he  said  to  his  young  friend, 
without  displaying  any  astonishment.  "  You  have  come 
for  the  procession.  That  is  well.  You  will  hear  those 
beautiful  lines  sung :  '  Hi  sunt  quos  fatue  mundus  abhor- 
ruit.'  He  pronounced  ou  for  u,  after  the  Italian,  for  his 
liturgic  education  had  been  received  entirely  in  Rome. 
"  It  is  a  good  time  for  these  ceremonies.  The  tourists 
are  gone.  There  will  only  be  people  who  pray  and 
those  who  feel,  as  you  do.  To  feel  is  half  the  prayer. 
The  other  half  is  believing.  You  will  come  to  us  in  the 
end.  I  have  always  said  so.  There  is  no  peace  else- 
where." 

"  I  would  gladly  have  only  come  for  this  procession," 
replied  Dorsenne,  "  but  I  have  another  motive  for  my 
visit,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice  still 
more.  "  I  have  been  looking  for  you  for  more  than  an 
hour.  I  want  you  to  aid  me  in  rendering  a  great  ser- 
vice to  several  people,  and  prevent  a  great  wrong,  per- 
haps." 

"  A  great  wrong,"  repeated  Montfanon,  "  and  one 
which  I  can  aid  you  in  preventing  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dorsenne ;  "  but  this  is  not  the  place 
to  explain  this  long  and  terrible  adventure  in  detail. 
At  what  hour  does  the   ceremony  take  place?    I  will 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD  CHOUAN.     165 

wait  for  you,  and  I  can  talk  to  you  as  I  am  taking-  you 
home.    I  have  a  carriage." 

"  It  does  not  commence  until  five  or  half-past  five," 
said  Montfanon,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  and  it  is  now  a 
quarter  after  four.  Let  us  go  outside  of  the  catacombs, 
if  you  are  willing,  and  you  can  relate  your  story  as  we 
walk  about.  A  very  great  wrong  ?  Well !  "  he  added, 
pressing  the  hand  of  the  young  man,  whose  character  he 
loved  just  as  much  as  he  had  hated  his  ideas  during  the 
years  he  had  known  him  since  they  first  met  at  the  house 
of  their  mutual  friend,  the  much -regretted  Count  de 
Gobineau,  the  apostle  of  the  theory  of  the  races ;  "  re- 
assure yourself,  my  dear  fellow,  we  will  prevent  it." 

There  was  that  in  the  manner  in  which  he  pronounced 
these  words,  the  peaceful  tranquillity  of  a  conscience 
which  knew  no  uneasiness,  that  of  a  believer  who  knew 
that  he  always  did  all  he  could  of  all  he-  should.  He 
would  not  be  Montfanon — that  is  to  say,  a  species  of 
visionary,  who  delighted  in  discussing  with  Dorsenne, 
because  he  knew  that,  in  spite  of  all,  he  was  under- 
stood— if  he  had  not  continued  as  he  did,  while  they 
were  climbing  upward  toward  daylight,  along  the  illu- 
minated galleries:  "If  it  makes  no  difference  to  you. 
Monsieur,  the  apologist  of  the  modem  world,  I  am  per- 
fectly content  to  keep  you  here,  and  to  ask  you  frankly : 
Do  you  not  feel  yourself  more  the  equal  of  all  the  dead 
who  are  sleej)ing  here  in  these  walls  than  of  a  radical 
elector  or  a  deputy  free-mason?  Have  you  not  the 
impression  that  if  these  martyrs  had  not  come  to 
pray  under  these  vaults,  eighteen  hundred  years  ago, 
the  best  part  of  your  soul  would  never  have  existed? 
"Where  can  you  find  a  more  touching  poetry  than  that 
of  these  symbols  and  epitaphs'?  That  admirable  de 
Rossi  showed  me  one  at  Saint  Calixtus,  last  year.  The 
tears  come  to  my  eyes  when  I  think  of  it.  *  Pete  pro 
Phoebe  et  pro  virginio  ejus.'  Pray  for  Phoebe  and  for 
— '—  but  how  translate  that  Avord,  this  virginius,  the 
spouse  who  knew  but  one  wife,  the  virgin  man  who 


166  COSMOPOLIS. 

possessed  a  virgin  spouse?  Your  youth  will  pass, 
Dorsenne.  You  will  one  day  feel  what  I  feel,  the  hap- 
piness missed  because  of  old-time  stains,  and  you  will 
understand  that  it  is  only  in  the  Christian  marriage, 
the  whole  sublimity  of  which  is  compiised  in  this 
prayer :  '  Pro  virginius  ejus.'  You  will  be  like  me 
then,  and  you  will  find  in  this  book,"  and  he  showed 
him  the  "Eucologue  "  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  "  how 
to  offer  your  remorse  and  your  regrets  to  God.  Do  you 
know  the  hymn  to  the  Holy  Sacrament  ?  '  Adoro  te, 
devote.'  No.  And  yet  you  are,  perhaps,  worthy  of 
ieeling  all  the  beauty  of  the  lines.  Listen  to  this.  The 
expression  alone  will  delight  an  artist  like  you.  It 
endeavors  to  explain  this  idea :  that  on  the  cross  you 
see  but  the  man,  and  not  the  God,  in  the  host  you  no 
longer  see  the  man,  and  yet  you  believe  in  the  real  pres- 
ence: 

"  'In  crace  latebat  sola  Deltas. 

At  hie  latet  simul  et  humanitas, 

Ambo  tamen  credens  atqiie  confitens.     .     ,     .    ' 

"  And  now  just  listen  to  this  last  line : 

"  *  Peto  quod  petivit  latro  pcenitens  I  '* 

"Ah!  what  a  cry!  It  is  beautiful!  It  is  grand! 
What  words  to  utter  when  dying!"  and  he  repeated: 
"'Peto  quod  petivit  latro  poenitens.'  And  what  did 
this  poor  robber  ask,  this  Dixmas,  of  whom  the  Church 
made  a  saint  for  that  appeal:  'Remember  me,  Lord, 
when  you  come  to  your  Kingdom ! '  But  here  we  are. 
Lower  your  head  a  little,  so  that  you  will  not  spoil  your 
hat.  Now,  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?  You  know  the 
de  Montfanon  motto:  'Excelsior  et  firmior' — Always 
higher  and  more  firmly.  One  never  has  enough  good 
actions  to  do.  If  it  is  possible,  present,  as  they  say, 
your  case." 

This  singular  mixture  of  fervor  and  good  humor,  of 

*  "  I  ask  what  the  repentant  robber  asked." 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OP  AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     167 

exalted  eloquence  and.  political  or  religious  fanaticism, 
was  Montfanon  exactly.  But  the  good-humor  soon  dis- 
appeared from  his  face  as  he  listened  to  Dorsenne's 
narrative,  which  the  latter  had  so  skilfully  composed. 
The  writer  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  first  broaching- 
his  proposition.  He  understood  too  well  that  he  must 
not  argue  with  the  ex-pontifical  zouave.  Either  he 
would  look  upon  it  as  monstrous  and  absurd,  or  he 
would  see  in  it  a  charitable  duty  to  perform,  and  then, 
no  matter  how  distasteful  the  thing  might  be,  he  would 
perform  it,  as  he  would  distribute  alms.  It  was  this 
vein  of  generosity  which  Julien,  diplomatic  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  was  trying  to  touch  by  his  confidence. 
Authorized  by  his  conversation  of  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, he  related  what  he  could  of  Gorka's  visit — con- 
cealing the  word  of  honor,  so  falsely  given,  which 
weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He  told  how  he  had  calmed 
this  madman,  how  he  had  conducted  him  back  to  the 
station,  and  then  the  meeting  of  the  two  rivals  twenty- 
four  hours  later.  He  dwelt  upon  Alba's  attitude  during 
that  evening,  and  upon  the  infamy  of  the  anonymous 
letters,  written  by  an  unknown  enemy,  to  Mme.  Steno's 
daughter  and  to  her  former  lover.  And  after  having 
told  of  the  mysterious  and  sudden  quarrel  between 
Gorka  and  Chapron,  he  continued : 

"  I  have  consented  to  act  as  his  second,"  he  concluded, 
"  because  I  think  that  it  is  my  positive  duty  to  do  all  I 
can  to  prevent  this  duel  from  taking  place.  Think  of  it. 
If  it  does  take  place,  and  one  or  the  other  of  them  is 
killed  or  wounded,  how  can  such  a  thing  be  concealed 
in  such  a  gossiping  town  as  Rome  1  And  what  com- 
ments will  be  made !  It  will  be  too  evident  that  those 
two  young  men  only  quarrelled  on  account  of  the 
scandal  between  Mme.  Steno  and  Maitland.  By  what 
strange  chance?  About  that  I  know  nothing.  But 
there  will  be  no  doubt  on  the  question.  Then  more 
anonymous  letters  will  be  written  to  Alba,  to  Mme. 
Gorka,  to  Mme.  Maitland.    As  for  the  men,  I  don't  care. 


168  COSMOPOLIS. 

Two  of  the  three  deserve  all  that  happens  to  them. 
But  these  innocent  creatures,  is  it  not  frightful  to  think 
of  how  this  will  affect  them  ?  " 

"  Frightful,  indeed,"  replied  Montfanon  ;  "  this  is  what 
makes  these  criminal  adventures  so  hideous.  So  many 
people  are  injured  besides  the  guilty  ones.  Do  you  see 
now  what  this  society  really  is,  that  you  found,  only  day 
before  yesterday,  so  refined,  so  interesting  ?  But  it  does 
no  good  to  recriminate.  I  understand  that.  You  have 
come  to  get  my  advice  on  your  duty  as  second.  My 
youthful  follies  are  of  use  in  so  far  as  I  can  direct  you 
now.  Correctness  in  the  smallest  details,  and  no  nerves, 
are  all  that  is  needed  in  arranging  an  affair  like  this. 
Ah !  But  you  will  come  to  grief.  Gorka  is  a  crazy  man 
just  now.  I  know  these  Poles  well.  They  have  fright- 
ful faults,  but  they  are  brave.  God !  how  brave  they 
are !  And  this  little  Chapron,  I  know  him  also,  he  is 
one  of  those  sweet  stubborn  natures,  who  would  run  a 
sword  in  their  hearts  without  saying  '  ouf '  rather  than 
go  back.  And  possessed  of  such  self-love!  He  has 
good  fighting  blood  in  his  veins,  that  youngster,  not- 
withstanding the  mixture.  And  with  this  mixture,  see 
what  heroes  we  have,  for  example  the  first  of  the 
three  Dumas,  the  mulatto  general  ?  Yes,  you  have  an 
unpleasant  task  before  you,  my  good  Dorsenne.  But 
you  must  have  another  second,  to  assist  you,  one  whose 
intentions  are  the  same  as  yours,  and,  pardon  me,  more 
experience  perhaps  ? " 

"  Well,  Marquis,"  replied  Julien,  in  a  voice  trembling 
with  anxiety,  "there  is  but  one  person  in  Rome  who 
could  be  respected  sufficiently,  venerated  by  all,  even  in- 
cluding Gorka,  that  his  intervention  in  this  delicate 
and  dangerous  affair  would  be  decisive,  only  one  person 
who  could  dictate  excuses  to  Chapron,  or  obtain  them 
from  the  other.  Finally,  there  is  but  one  person  who 
has  the  authority  of  a  hero,  before  whom  they  would  be 
silent,  when  he  speaks  on  honor,  and  that  person  is 
you.     .     .     ." 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF  AN  OLD  CHOUAN.     169 

"  I,"  cried  Montfanon,  "  I,  you  want  me  to  be.    .    .    ." 

"One  of  Chapron's  seconds,"  interrupted  Dorsenne. 
"  Yes,  that  is  true.  I  come  at  his  request  and  for  that 
alone.  .  ,  .  Do  not  tell  me  what  I  already  know,  that 
your  position  is  not  compatible  with  such  a  step.  It 
is  because  of  this  very  position  that  I  conceived  the 
idea -of  having  recourse  to  you.  Do  not  tell  me  either 
that  your  religious  principles  are  against  duelling.  It 
is  just  precisely  because  I  wish  to  prevent  a  duel  that 
I  beg  you  to  accept  the  position.  This  affair  must  not 
come  off.  I  swear  to  you  that  the  peace  of  too  many 
innocent  people  is  threatened." 

And  he  continued  to  employ,  in  the  service  of  this  de- 
cisive appeal  which  he  was  making  at  the  moment,  all 
the  intelligent  versatility,  and  also  all  the  eloquence  with 
which  he  was  gifted.  He  could  read  on  the  face  of  the 
old  fighter,  now  become  the  most  impassioned  of  prac- 
tising Catholics,  twenty  different  and  contradictory  im- 
pressions. Finally  Montfanon  put  his  hand,  with  great 
solemnity,  on  Dorsenne's  arm,  which  he  pressed  warmly, 
and  said : 

"  Listen,  Dorsenne,  do  not  tell  me  anything  more.  I 
consent  to  do  what  you  have  asked  me  to,  but  only  on 
two  conditions  ;  let  us  understand  each  other  perfectly. 
The  first  is  that  M.  Chapron  will  put  himself  entirely  in 
my  hands,  and  consent  to  do  absolutely  what  I  ask  him. 
The  second  is  that  you  will  retire  with  me  if  these  two 
gentlemen  persist  in  playing  a  child's  part.  I  accept 
your  proposition  to  aid  you  in  fulfilling  a  mission  of 
charity  and  nothing  else;  I  repeat,  and  nothing  else. 
.  .  .  Before  bringing  M.  Chapron  to  see  me,  you  will 
report  my  words  to  him.     Do  you  consent  1 " 

"Word  for  word,"  replied  the  novelist,  who  added, 
"he  is  waiting  at  home  to  hear  the  result  of  my  mission." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  "  I  will  return  to  Eome 
with  you  immediately.  He  must  have  already  received 
a  visit  from  Gorka's  seconds,  and  if  you  really  desire  to 
arrange  this  matter  properly,  the  rule  is  not  to  let  it 


170  COSMOPOLIS. 

drag.  I  cannot  be  present  at  my  procession,  but  pre- 
venting a  wrong  is  doing  good,  and  it  is  another  way  of 
praying  to  God." 

"  Let  me  take  your  hand,  my  good  friend,"  said  Dor- 
senne.  "  I  never  understood  until  now  what  was  meant 
by  a  truly  brave  man." 

When  the  writer  reached  the  house  in  the  Via  Leo- 
pardi,  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  after  having  taken 
Montfanon  home,  he  felt  himself  sustained  by  so  moral 
a  support  that  he  was  almost  joyous.  He  found  Florent 
in  his  smoking-room,  occupied  in  arranging  his  papers 
with  the  methodical  phlegm  which  was  indicated  by 
his  black  eyes,  so  languid  in  their  soft  dark  color. 

"  He  accepts,"  were  the  first  words,  almost  simulta- 
neously spoken  by  both  young  men,  and  Dorsenne  re- 
peated what  Montfanon  had  said  to  him. 

"  I  put  myself  entirely  in  your  hands,"  said  the  other. 
"  I  have  no  thirst  for  M.  le  Count  Gorka's  blood.  But 
still  this  gentleman  must  not  be  able  to  accuse  Colonel 
Chapron's  grandson  of  cowardice.  I  rely  upon  General 
Dorsenne's  relative  and  upon  the  old  soldier  of  Charette 
to  see  that  I  am  not  compromised." 

"  That  goes  without  saying,"  said  Julien,  and  as  Flo- 
rent  handed  him  a  letter,  he  asked,  "  What  is  this  ?  " 

"This,"  replied  Florent,  "this  is  a  note  which  was 
written  not  half  an  hour  ago,  at  this  table,  and  ad- 
dressed to  you  by  Baron  Hafner.  I  find  I  must  keep 
you  posted.  There  is  some  news  for  you.  I  have  re- 
ceived my  adversary's  seconds.  The  Baron  is  one  of 
them,  the  other  is  Ardea.    .    .    ." 

"  Baron  Hafner,"  cried  Dorsenne.  "  What  a  strange 
choice !  "  He  stopped,  and  Florent  and  he  exchanged 
glances.  They  understood  each  other  without  speak- 
ing. Boleslas  could  find  no  surer  way  of  letting  Mme. 
Steno  know  what  proceedings  he  intended  to  take  for 
wreaking  his  vengeance.  On  the  other  side,  the  well- 
known  devotion  of  the  Baron  to  the  Countess  gave  one 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES  OF  AN   OLD  CHOUAN.    171 

more  chance  for  a  peaceful  solution,  at  the  same  time 
that  Montfanon's  fanaticism,  and  the  idea  of  being-  con- 
fronted by  Fanny's  father,  threw  a  comedy  aspect  across 
this  drama  called  forth  by  Gorka's  fierce  jealousy. 
Julien  continued  with  a  smile :  "  You  will  see  Mont- 
fanon's face  when  we  tell  him  who  the  two  seconds 
are.  He  is  a  man  of  the  fifteenth  century,  you  know,  a 
Montluc,  a  Duke  of  Alva,  a  Philip  II.  I  do  not  know 
which  he  detests  the  most,  the  freemasons,  the  free- 
thinkers, the  Protestants,  the  Jews,  or  the  Germans. 
And  as  this  obscure  and  wily  Hafner  is  a  little  of  all  of 
these  he  has  inspired  him  with  hatred !  Not  taking^ 
into  consideration  the  fact  that  he  looks  upon  him  now 
as  being  a  secret  agent  of  the  Triple  Alliance !  But  let 
us  see  the  letter."  He  opened  it  and  took  in  its  con- 
tents at  a  glance.  "  It  breathes  a  delicacy  that  almost 
borders  on  kindness.  He  has  also  felt  that  this  matter 
must  be  settled  at  once,  were  it  only  to  prevent  an  evil 
purpose.  He  makes  an  appointment  with  us,  that  is, 
myself  and  your  other  second,  between  six  and  seven 
o'clock.  Come,  time  presses.  You  must  come  with  ma 
to  the  Marquis,  to  make  your  request  officially.  Let  us 
begin  with  that.  We  will  get  his  promise  before  we 
mention  Hafner's  name.  I  know  him.  He  will  not  go 
back  on  his  word." 

The  two  friends  found  Montfanon,  who  was  waiting 
for  them  in  his  office,  a  large  room  filled  with  books, 
overlooking  that  panorama  of  the  Forum,  more 
majestic  still,  seen  in  this  light  of  a  clear  afternoon, 
when  the  shadows  of  the  columns  and  the  arches 
were  beginning  to  lengthen  perceptibly  on  the  white 
pavements.  This  large  cell,  with  red-tiled  flooring, 
had  no  other  luxury  than  a  carpet  spread  under  the 
desk,  which  was  piled  with  papers,  no  doubt  the  frag- 
ments of  the  famous  work  on  the  connection  of  the 
nobility  of  France  with  the  Church.  A  crucifix  stood 
on  the  desk.  On  the  wall  were  two  portraits,  one  of  Mon- 
seigneur  Pie,  the  holy  Bishop  of  Poitiers,  and  that  of 


172  COSMOPOLIS. 

General  Sonis,  standing:  on  his  wooden  leg-,  banging  on 
each  side  of  a  very  beautiful  piece  of  tapestry  repre- 
senting a  Saint  Francois,  the  patron  saint  of  the  master 
of  the  house.  This  was  the  only  artistic  decoration  of 
this  simple  room.  The  nobleman  often  said :  "  I  have 
freed  myself  from  the  tyranny  of  objects."  But  with  its 
marvellous  background  of  grand  ruins,  and  its  glimpse 
of  the  sky,  this  simple  place  was  an  incomparable  asy- 
lum in  which  to  end  in  meditation  and  renunciation  a 
life  which  had  once  been  ruffled  by  the  storm  of  the 
senses  and  the  world.  The  hermit  rose  to  salute  his 
two  visitors,  and  pointing  out  to  Chapron  an  open  vol- 
ume on  the  table,  said : 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you ;  that  is  a  book  by  Chateau- 
villars  on  duelling.  It  is,  however,  a  code  that  is  not 
very  complete.  Yet  I  would  recommend  it  to  you,  if 
you  were  ever  called  upon  to  fulfil  a  mission  like  ours," 
and  he  pointed  to  Dorsenne  and  himself  with  a  gesture 
which  implied  the  most  amicable  of  acceptances.  "  It 
seems  that  we  must  have  a  very  quick  hand.  Ha !  ha  I 
Do  not  make  excuses  for  yourself.  You  should  have 
seen  me  as  I  was  when  I  was  twenty-one  years  old.  I 
threw  a  plate  at  the  head  of  a  gentleman  who  sneered  at 
my  lord  the  Count  de  Chambord  before  a  crowd  of  Jaco- 
bins who  were  rollicking  in  a  provincial  table  d'hote. 
See,"  he  said,  lifting  his  mustache  and  showing  a  scar, 
"  this  is  the  souvenir.  The  rascal  was  an  old  officer  of 
dragoons.  He  proposed  swords.  I  accepted,  and  I  was 
forced  to  abide  by  my  acceptance,  but  he  lost  two 
fingers.  .  .  .  This  will  not  happen  to  you  this  time, 
I  hope.    Dorsenne  has  told  you  my  conditions  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  I  replied  to  him  by  saying  that  I  was  sure 
I  could  place  my  honor  in  no  safer  hands,"  responded 
Florent. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Montfanon,  with  a  pleased 
gesture.  "  No  words.  That  is  well.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I  formed  my  opinion  of  you  from  that  day  on  which  we 
spoke  together  in  Saint-Louis.    You  honor  the  dead. 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF  AN   OLD  CHOUAN.     173 

That  is  sufficient  for  me  who  believe  that  man  is  to  be 
judged  by  the  past.  This  is  why  I  am  happy,  very 
happy,  to  be  useful  to  you.  But  tell  me  very  clearly, 
very  precisely,  the  tale  you  have  already  told  Dor- 
senne." 

Then  Florent  related,  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
the  story  which  had  been  agreed  upon  between  Gorka 
and  himself,  that  is  to  say,  their  discussion  and  their 
hot-headedness,  carefully  omitting  the  details  in  which 
his  brother-in-law  was  concerned. 

"  The  devil !  "  cried  Montfanon,  familiarly,  "  the  busi- 
ness looks  badly,  very  badly.  .  .  .  Come,  a  second  is 
really  a  confessor.  .  .  .  You  had  a  discussion  in  the 
street  with  M.  Gorka,  but  about  what  ?  .  .  .  You 
cannot  answer  me  ?  What  did  he  say  to  you  that  you 
should  lose  your  temper  to  the  point  of  striking  him  ? 
That  is  the  first  key  to  the  situation." 

"  I  cannot  reply  to  your  question,"  said  Florent. 

"Then,"  replied  the  Marquis,  after  a  moment's  si- 
fence,  "  it  only  remains  to  establish  the  fact  of  a  gesture 
on  your  part,  how  will  I  say  it  ?  Irreflective,  incom- 
pleted, in  fact.  That  is  the  second  key  to  the  position. 
You  have  no  particular  reason  for  feeling  unfriendly 
toward  M.  Gorka,  have  you  I " 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Nor  he  toward  you  1 " 

"  None." 

"  The  affair  is  beginning  to  look  brighter,"  said  Mont- 
fanon, who  was  quiet  again  for  a  few  moments  and  then 
resumed,  in  the  voice  of  a  man  talking  to  himself.  "  But 
M.  le  Count  Gorka  considers  himself  insulted.  In- 
sulted ?  But  was  there  an  insult  offered  1  That  is  the 
point  we  must  discuss.  Violence  done,  or  the  menace 
of  violence,  will  allow  of  no  arrangement.  .  .  .  But 
a  threatened  blow,  though  immediately  suppressed,  as  it 
did  not  actually  take  effect.  .  .  ,  Do  not  interrupt 
me,"  he  insisted.  "  I  am  trying  to  sweep  the  debris  away 
and  see  my  way  clear.     .    .    .    We  must  reach  a  solu- 


174  OOSMOPOLIS. 

tion.  "We  must  express  our  regrets  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  leave  the  field  open  for  another  reparation  if  Gorka 
insists  upon  it.  .  .  .  But  he  will  not  insist.  The 
whole  problem  hinges  on  his  choice  of  seconds.  .  .  . 
Who  will  he  choose  ?  " 

"I  have  already  received  a  visit  from  them,"  said 
Florent,  "  about  half  an  hour  ag-o.  One  is  the  Prince 
Ardea." 

"He  is  a  nobleman,"  replied  Montfanon, "  you  can  lis- 
ten to  him.  I  am  not  really  sorry  to  see  him  in  order  to 
tell  him  my  sentiments  on  this  public  sale  of  his  palace, 
to  which  he  should  never  have  consented.  .  .  .  And 
the  other  ?  " 

"  The  other? "  Dorsenne  hastily  interposed.  "Prepare 
yourself  for  a  blow.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  did  not  know 
his  name  when  I  went  in  search  of  you  in  the  cata- 
combs. He  is  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  He  is  Baron  Haf- 
ner." 

"  Baron  Hafner,"  cried  Montfanon.  "  Boleslas  Gorka, 
the  descendant  of  the  Gorkas,  that  great  Luc  Gorka 
who  was  Palatine  of  Posen  and  Bishop  of  Cujavie,  has 
selected  for  his  second  M.  Justus  Hafner,  this  robber, 
this  freebooter,  who  has  had  that  terrible  lawsuit  ? 
No,  Dorsenne,  do  not  tell  me  such  a  thing  ;  it  is  impossi- 
ble." Then  he  added,  with  a  combative  air :  "  We  will 
challenge  him  for  lack  of  honor,  I  will  attend  to  the  mat- 
ter, and  will  also  tell  my  reasons  to  Boleslas.  We  will 
pass  a  joyful  quarter  of  an  hour  together,  I  can  assure 
you." 

"  You  will  not  do  that,"  said  Dorsenne,  quickly.  "  In 
the  first  place,  in  the  question  of  official  honor  the  law 
decides,  does  it  not  ?  Hafner  was  acquitted  and  his 
adversaries  were  ordered  to  pay  the  costs.  You  your- 
self told  me  that  the  other  day.  .  .  .  And  then  you 
forget  the  conversation  which  we  have  just  had." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Florent  in  his  turn.  "  Monsieur  de 
Montfanon,  in  consenting  to  assist  me,  has  done  me  a 
great  honor  which  I  will  never  forget.     ,     .     ,    If  any 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN  OLD   CHOUAN.    176 

■unpleasantness  should  arise  or  result  from  this,  I  should 
be  deeply  grieved  and  I  am  ready  to  release  him  from 
his  word." 

"  No,"  said  the  Marquis,  after  a  few  moments'  silence, 
"  I  cannot  take  it  back."  He  was  so  generous  when  it 
was  not  a  question  of  his  two  or  three  hobbies,  that  the 
slightest  exhibition  of  delicate  feeling  awoke  an  echo 
in  him.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Chapron  again,  and 
continued,  but  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  bespoke  his  sup- 
pressed irritation  :  "  That  does  not  concern  us  after  all, 
if  M.  Gorka  judges  it  wise  to  have  himself  represented 
in  an  affair  of  honor  by  a  man  to  whom  he  should  not 
even  bow.  You  will  give  our  two  names  to  these  two 
gentlemen,  and  Dorsenne  and  I  will  await  them,  accord- 
ing to  rule.  They  are  the  ones  to  come  to  us,  as  they  are 
the  mandatories  of  the  offender." 

"They  have  already  made  an  appointment  for  this 
evening,"  replied  Chapron. 

"  How  is  that  ?  Arranged  ?  And  with  whom  ?  And 
for  whom  ?  "  cried  out  Montfanon,  overcome  by  a  new 
fit  of  anger.  "  With  you  ?  For  us  ?  Ah,  but  I  do  not 
like  that,  these  good-fellowships,  and  that  at  a  time 
when  the  matter  in  hand  is  so  serious  !  The  code  is  ab- 
solute on  that  point.  Once  their  challenge  is  brought 
to  you,  to  which  you  are  obliged  to  reply  'Yes'  or 
*  No,'  these  gentlemen  should  immediately  retire.  .  .  . 
It  is  not  your  fault,  it  is  Ardea's,  who  has  allowed 
this  manipulator  of  false  dividends  to  ply  his  trade  of 
scheming  and  stock- jobbing.  .  .  .  But  we  will  rec- 
tify it  in  a  good  French  fashion.  .  .  .  And  where  is 
this  rendezvous  ? " 

"  I  will  read  you  the  letter  which  the  Baron  left  with 
Florent  for  me,"  said  Dorsenne,  and  he  read  the  very 
courteous  letter  which  Hafner  had  written  to  him,  apolo- 
gizing for  the  liberty  which  he  had  taken  of  choosing 
his  own  house  for  the  meeting-place  of  the  four  sec- 
onds. "  You  cannot  very  well  leave  so  polite  a  letter  as 
this  unanswered,  can  you  ?  " 


176  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  There  are  too  many  '  dear  sirs,'  and  *  compliments  * 
in  it,"  said  Montfanon,  brusquely.  "  Sit  down  there," 
he  insisted,  yielding  his  arm-chair  to  Florent,  "and 
jnform  them  of  our  names,  both  of  them,  and  g-ive 
our  address,  adding  that  we  hold  ourselves  at  their 
disposal,  without  mentioning  this  first  false  step  on 
their  part.  And  may  they  never  come  back.  And  you, 
Dorsenne,  as  you  are  afraid  of  wounding  this  gentle- 
man, I  will  not  hinder  you  from  going  to  see  him — 
personally,  do  you  hear — to  acquaint  him  with  the  fact 
that  M.  Chapron,  here  present,  has  chosen  as  first  sec- 
ond a  disagreeable  person,  an  ancient  duellist,  anything 
you  care  to  call  him,  but  one  who  insists  upon  strict 
forms,  and  in  the  first  place,  a  demand  made  according 
to  rule,  to  us  two,  in  both  their  names,  in  order  to  fix 
upon  an  oflicial  appointment." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  Dorsenne,  when  they 
found  themselves  alone,  after  leaving  Montfanon.  *'  He 
is  another  man,  since  you  named  the  Baron.  .  .  .  The 
discussion  between  them  promises  to  be  lively.  .  .  . 
I  hope  he  does  not  embroil  us  all  with  his  folly.  My 
word  of  honor,  if  I  had  had  an  idea  whom  Gorka  was 
going  to  choose,  I  would  never  have  mentioned  the 
*  old  leaguer,'  as  I  call  him." 

"  And  I,  even  if  M.  de  Montfanon  is  going  to  in- 
sist upon  my  fighting  at  five  paces,"  replied  Chapron, 
laughing ;  "  will  thank  you  for  having  brought  me 
in  contact  with  him.  He  is  a  whole-souled  man,  like 
my  father,  and  like  Maitland.  I  adore  those  kind  of 
people." 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  having  a  good  heart  and  a  clear 
head  at  the  same  time  ?  "  Julien  asked  himself,  as  he 
reached  the  Savorelli  Palace,  where  Hafner  lived,  think- 
ing, on  the  one  hand,  of  the  Marquis's  anger,  and  on  the 
other  of  the  illusion  about  this  egotistical  Maitland,  which 
had  just  been  revealed  to  him  by  Florent's  last  words. 
He  was  overtaken  by  all  his  apprehensions  of  the  after- 
noon, in  a  stronger  manner,  so  well  did  he  know  Mont- 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF  AN  OLD   CHOUAN.    177 

fanon  to  be  irritable  on  certain  points ;  and  it  was  one 
of  these  points  which  would  be  wounded  to  the  quick 
by  being-  brought  into  such  close  contact  with  Gor- 
ka's  seconds.  "  I  do  not  count  on  Hafner  himself,"  he 
thougiit;  "if  this  dangerous  financier  has  accepted  a 
mission  so  entirely  contrary  to  his  tastes,  his  position, 
his  habits,  to  his  age  almost,  it  must  be  in  connivance 
with  his  future  son-in-law,  or  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
ciliating him.  No  doubt  the  marriage  is  concluded  at 
the  present  moment.  ...  I  hope  not.  The  Marquis 
would  be  so  furious  in  that  case  that  he  would  insist 
upon  a  duel  at  any  price." 

The  young  man  had  no  idea  that  his  reasoning  had 
been  so  correct.  Chance,  which  is  so  complete  in  its 
workings  sometimes,  had  heaped  event  upon  event,  and 
it  had  happened  that  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
deliberating  with  Gorka  upon  the  choice  of  another 
second,  and,  very  tired  himself  of  the  duty  which  he 
had  consented  to  take  upon  himself,  he  received  a  note 
from  Mme.  Steno,  which  simply  contained  these  words  : 
"  Your  demand  has  been  made,  and  the  answer  is  yes. 
Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you,  Simpaticone." 
A  bright  idea  came  to  him  :  to  arrange  this  quarrel,  by 
bis  father-in-law's  help,  a  quarrel  which  he  looked 
upon  as  absurd,  useless,  and  dangerous.  The  haste  with 
which  Gorka  accepted  Hafner  as  his  other  second 
proved,  as  Dorsenne  and  Florent  had  instantly  per- 
ceived, that  he  was  anxious  that  his  perfidious  mistress 
should  be  informed  of  his  acts  and  desires.  As  to  the 
Baron,  he  had  consented  at  once — Oh,  irony  of  circum- 
stances ! — and  had  spoken  to  Peppino  Ardea  words  al- 
most identical  to  those  spoken  by  Montfanon  to  Dor- 
senne : 

"  We  will  draw  up  in  advance  a  report  of  concilia- 
tion, and  if  the  affair  cannot  be  arranged,  we  will  retire 
from  it." 

It  was  in  these  terms  that  this  memorable  conversa- 
tion had  been  concluded,  truly  worthy  of  the  comMna- 


178  COSMOPOLIS. 

atone  which  poor  Fanny's  marriage  represented.  It 
had  been  less  a  question  of  this  marriage  than  of  the 
service  to  be  rendered  to  the  twice  criminal  loves  of 
the  grande  dame  who  presided  at  the  traffic !  Is  it  nec- 
essary to  add  that  neither  Ardea  nor  his  future  father- 
in-law  made  the  shadow  of  an  allusion  to  the  real  truth 
of  the  affair.  Perhaps,  at  any  other  moment,  the  deep 
innate  prudence  of  the  Baron,  and  his  fastidious  care 
never  to  compromise  himself,  would  have  made  him 
turn  away  from  the  possible  worry  which  his  intrusion 
might  bring  into  the  brutal  adventure  of  a  discarded 
and  exasperated  lover.  But  his  joy  at  the  prospect  of 
his  daughter  being  a  Koman  princess — and  with  what  a 
name ! — had  really  turned  his  head.  He  had  the  good 
sense,  however,  to  say  to  the  astonished  Ardea : 

"  Not  a  word  to  Mme.  Steno,  at  least  until  some- 
ihing  else  turns  up.  She  would  not  hesitate  to  warn 
Mme.  Gorka,  and  God  alone  knows  what  she  might 
do." 

In  reality,  the  two  confreres  understood  too  well, 
whether  directly  or  indirectly,  the  necessity  of  keeping 
the  matter  from  Maitland.  They  employed  the  latter 
part  of  their  afternoon  in  visiting  Florent,  and  then  in 
despatching  telegrams  announcing  the  engagement,  in 
which  pretty  Fanny  was  made  to  appear  so  much  hap- 
pier from  the  fact  that  Cardinal  Guerillot  had  con- 
sented to  preside  at  her  baptism.  The  Baron  was  so 
contented  with  the  consummation  of  all  his  plans  that 
he  was  incapable  of  experiencing  joy  of  any  other  kind. 
He  loved  his  daughter — this  strange  man — a  little  after 
the  manner  in  which  a  breeder  of  horses  loves  the  horse 
which  is  destined  to  win  the  Grand  Prix.  Thus,  when 
Dorsenne  arrived,  bearer  of  Chapron's  letter  and  de 
Montfanon's  message,  he  was  received  with  a  cordiality 
and  complaisance  which  immediately  enlightened  him 
as  to  the  result  of  the  matrimonial  intrigue,  of  which  he 
had  spoken  to  Alba. 

"  Any  thing  that  your  friend  wishes,  my  dear  sir  .  .  .  . 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     179   , 

Xs  not  that  so,  Peppino  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  seating  him- 
self at  his  table.  "Will  you  dictate  the  letter  your- 
self, Dorsenne  ?  No.  .  .  .  Come,  is  that  all  right  ? 
.  .  .  You  will  understand  immediately  in  what  sen- 
timents we  have  accepted  this  mission,  when  you  know 
that  Fanny  is  betrothed  to  Prince  Ardea.  The  news  is 
three  hours  old.  Thus  you  are  the  first  to  be  told  of  it 
— is  that  not  so,  Peppino  ?  "  He  had  not  thought  it 
.necessary  to  mention  the  fact  that  not  less  than  two 
hundred  despatches  had  been  sent  from  the  house  that 
afternoon.  "Come  back  when  it  suits  you,  with  the 
Marquis.  I  only  ask  that,  in  view  of  the  circumstance, 
the  interview  shall  take  place  here,  and  if  it  is  possible, 
between  six  and  seven,  or  nine  and  ten,  in  order  not  to 
interfere  with  our  little  family  dinner." 

"  Say  nine  o'clock,"  said  Dorsenne.  "  M.  de  Montfa- 
non  is  a  little  of  a  formalist.  He  would  prefer  to  have 
replied  to  you  by  a  letter." 

"  Prince  Ardea  to  marry  Mdlle.  Hafner ! "  This  cry, 
wrung  from  Montfanon  by  the  news  l?rought  him  by 
Julien,  was  so  sorrowful  that  the  young  man  lost  all 
desire  to  laugh.  He  had  thought  it  his  duty  to  fore- 
warn his  irascible  friend,  fearing  that  the  Baron  would 
make  some  allusion  to  the  event  in  the  course  of  the  con- 
versation, and  that  the  other  would  break  forth,  "  When  I 
told  you  that  the  Catholicity  of  this  young  girl  was  but 
a  farce !  When  I  told  it  to  Monseigneur  Guerillot !  This 
is  what  she  has  aimed  at  during  all  these  years,  with  this 
perfection  of  hypocrisy.  It  was  the  Castagna  Palace. 
And  she  is  to  go  into  it  as  its  mistress  ?  .  .  .  She  is 
to  bring  to  it  the  dishonor  of  this  stolen  gold  upon 
which  there  is  the  stain  of  blood  ?  Do  not  let  them  talk 
to  me  about  it ;  above  all,  warn  them,  or  I  will  not  answer 
for  myself.  Second  to  a  Gorka,  father-in-law  to  an 
Ardea,  he  triumphs,  this  robber  who  should  be  busy 
making  list  shoes,  if  he  had  had  his  deserts.  All  the 
other  Roman  princes,  those  who  have  no  stains  on  their 
shields— the  Orsini,  the  Colonna,  the   Odescalchi,  the 


180  COSMOPOLIS. 

Borghese,  the  Eospig-liosi — will  they  not  put  a  stop  to 
this  monstrous  thing  ?  Happily,  nobility  is  like  love : 
those  who  buy  these  sacred  things  dishonor  themselves 
in  paying  for  them,  and  what  they  gain  by  it  is  but  mud. 
Princess  d'Ardea !  .  .  .  That  creature !  ,  .  .  Ah, 
what  a  shame !  .  .  .  But  we  must  think  of  our  own 
engagement  with  that  good  Chapron.  This  young 
fellow  pleases  me  in  the  first  place,  because  he  is  prob- 
ably fighting  for  someone  else,  from  a  feeling  of  devo- 
tion which  I  cannot  understand.  It  is  devotion  never- 
theless, and  it  is  chivalric!  He  no  doubt  wishes  to 
prevent  this  unhappy  Gorka  from  provoking  a  scan- 
dal which  would  open  his  sister's  eyes.  .  .  .  And 
then,  as  I  told  him,  he  has  so  much  respect  for  the  dead, 
.  .  .  Come,  I  am  losing  my  head,  this  news  has  up- 
set me  so  much.  .  .  .  Princess  d'Ardea!  Write, 
that  we  will  go  to  M.  Hafner's  at  nine  o'clock.  I  do 
not  want  those  kind  of  people  in  my  house.  It  would 
not  be  correct  to  ask  them  to  your  house,  you  are  too 
young.  And  t  would  rather  go  to  the  father-in-law's 
than  to  the  son-in-law's.  He  is  only  following  his  trade, 
the  rascal,  in  buying  what  he  is  buying,  with  his  stolen 
millions.  But  the  other  1  .  .  .  And  his  great,  great-un- 
cle might  have  been  Sixtus  V.,  Julius  II.,  Pius  V.,  Hil- 
debrand;  he  would  have  sold  everything,  just  the  same. 
.  .  .  And  he  cannot  claim  ignorance !  He  has  heard 
this  man's  disgraceful  lawsuit  spoken  of !  He  knows 
where  his  millions  come  from !  He  has  heard  their  family 
and  their  life  gossiped  about !  .  .  .  And  all  this  has 
not  been  enough  to  imbue  him  with  too  great  a  horror  of 
accepting  this  man's  gold.  He  does  not  know  what 
duty  he  owes  to  a  name.  .  .  .  Our  name  !  Yes,  it  is 
our  name  and  our  honor  in  the  mouth  and  in  the 
thoughts  of  others.  How  happy  I  am,  Dorsenne,  to  be 
fifty-two  years  old  last  month.  I  will  be  gone  before  I 
can  see  what  you  will  see,  the  death-struggle  of  all  aris- 
tocracy and  all  royalty.  If  it  were  only  in  the  blood 
that  they  fell.     But  they  do  not  fall.    AJas !    They  are 


THE  LNCONSISTENCIES  OF  AN  OLD   CHOUAN.     181 

driven  to  the  earth,  which  is  the  saddest  of  all.  .  .  . 
What  matters  it,  however  ?  The  monarchy,  the  nobility, 
and  the  church  are  eternal.  The  people  who  despise 
them  will  die,  that  is  all.  .  ,  .  Come,  write  your  let- 
ter, and  I  will  sign  it.  Have  it  carried  to  them  and 
dine  with  me.  It  is  necessary,  in  going-  into  that  den,  to 
be  fortified  with  an  arg-ument  which  will  prevent  this 
duel,  without  compromising-  our  client.  .  .  .  An 
arrangement  must  be  found  for  him  which  would  be 
acceptable  to  me.  .  .  .  He  pleases  me,  I  repeat.  He 
rests  me,  after  the  others." 

This  exaltation,  which  began  to  frighten  Dorsenne, 
became  greater  during  the  dinner,  more  especially 
when,  in  discussing  the  conditions  of  the  arrangements 
which  he  expected  to  sustain,  the  remembrances  of 
his  terrible  youth  flowed  into  the  thoughts  and  into 
the  conversation  of  this  ancient  duellist.  Was  he  in- 
deed the  same  person  who  was  reciting  the  verses  of  a 
pious  hymn  but  a  few  hours  before,  in  the  catacombs  ? 
It  was  enough  that  the  feudal  blood  that  was  in  him 
should  be  awakened,  to  transform  him.  And  then,  the 
sparkle  in  his  eyes  and  the  flush  in  his  face  plainly 
told  the  story  that  this  adventure  of  the  duel,  which 
he  had  in  good  faith  thought  to  be  undertaken  as  an 
act  of  charity,  really  infatuated  him  on  its  own  account. 
It  was  the  old  amateur,  fond  of  the  sword  and  not 
easily  managed,  which  moved  this  man  of  prayers, 
whose  passions  had  been  fierce  and  who  had  loved 
all  emotions,  comprising  those  of  danger  and  naked 
swords,  as  he  to-day  loved  his  ideas,  as  he  had  loved 
his  flag — in  an  unbridled  manner.  It  was  no  longer  a 
question  of  three  poor  women,  who  must  be  spared 
suspicion,  nor  of  a  good  act  not  to  be  missed.  He  saw 
again  all  his  old  friends  and  their  talent  as  fighters — 
this  one's  carte,  and  the  way  in  which  another  always  at- 
tacked with  right-hand  blows,  the  self-possession  of 
a  third,  and  all  the  time  the  following  refrain  cut  in- 
to the  most  peaceful  anecdotes :     "  But  why  did  that 


182  COSMOPOLIS. 

devil  of  a  Gorka  take  this  Hafner  for  a  second  ?  It  is 
so  degrading,  it  is  inconceivable  I "  And  then,  just 
as  he  was  stepping  into  the  carnage  which  was  to  take 
them  to  their  interview,  he  heard  Dorsenne  say,  "  To 
the  Savorelli  Palace."    This  started  him  off  again. 

"  This  is  the  last  blow,"  he  cried,  raising  his  arm  and 
clinching  his  fist.  "  This  adventurer  lives  in  the  Pre- 
tender's house,  the  house  of  the  Stuarts !  "  And  he  re- 
lapsed into  a  silence  which  the  writer  felt  to  be  much 
stormier  than  the  declamations  of  a  few  moments  ago. 
He  did  not  come  out  of  it  until  introduced  into  the 
salon  of  this  dealer  in  knick-knacks,  who  had  become  a 
"grand  seigneur" — ^into  one  of  the  salons,  rather,  for 
the  apartment  boasted  of  five.  Once  there,  Montfanon 
looked  around  him  with  so  disgusted  an  air,  that  not- 
withstanding his  nervousness  Dorsenne  could  hardly 
keep  from  laughing,  and  teased  him,  saying : 

"You  will  not  pretend  that  he  has  not  some  very 
beautiful  things  here  ?  Those  two  paintings  by  Moroni, 
for  example  ?  " 

"Nothing  is  here  in  its  place,"  replied  Montfanon. 
"  Yes,  those  are  two  magnificent  portraits  of  ancestors, 
and  Monsieur  has  no  ancestors !  Look  at  those  arms  in 
that  glass  case,  and  he  has  never  touched  a  sword ! 
And  there  is  a  beautiful  tapestry,  representing  the  mul- 
tiplication of  the  loaves,  but  it  is  audacious  !  You  will 
not  believe  me,  Dorsenne,  but  it  makes  me  physically  ill 
to  be  here.  When  I  think  of  all  the  human  labor,  of  all 
the  human  heart  also,  in  these  objects,  and  to  end  in 
this  '  Caphamaiim,'  paid  for  how  ?  possessed  by  whom  % 
Close  your  eyes  and  think  of  Schroeder  and  of  the 
others  whom  you  do  not  know.  Look  at  the  garrets 
in  which  there  is  neither  furniture,  nor  wood,  nor 
bread.    Then  open  your  eyes  and  look  around  you." 

"  And  you,  my  brave  friend,"  replied  the  novelist,  "  I 
conjure  you  to  remember  our  conversation  in  the  cata- 
combs ;  think  of  the  three  women,  in  whose  name  I 
begged  of  you  to  be  of  assistance  to  Florent." 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CllOUAN.     183 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Montfanon,  passing  liis  hand 
across  his  forehead,  "  I  promise  you  to  be  calm." 

He  had  hardly  spoken  these  words  when  the  door 
opened,  giving  a  glimpse  of  another  brightly  lighted 
room,  which  must,  from  the  noise  of  voices  in  conversa- 
tion, have  contained  several  people — "  no  doubt  Mme. 
Steno  and  Alba,"  thought  Julien — and  the  Baron  en- 
tered, accompanied  by  Peppino  Ardea.  Even  as  he  was 
making  his  presentations,  the  novelist  was  struck  by 
the  contrast  offered  between  his  three  companions. 
Hafner  and  Ardea  in  evening  dress,  with  boutonnieres, 
presented  the  open  and  happy  countenances  of  two 
good  bourgeois  who  had  nothing  on  their  consciences. 
The  ordinary  pale  complexion  of  the  man  of  business 
was  flushed,  and  his  usually  hard  eye  softened.  As 
to  the  Prince,  the  same  admirable  unconsciousness  of 
the  spoiled  child  lighted  up  his  jovial  face,  and  in  con- 
trast the  hero  of  Patay,  with  coarse  boots  and  his  large 
body  tightly  buttoned  into  a  slightly  worn  frock  coat, 
presented  a  face  so  contracted  that  you  would  have 
thought  him  tortured  by  remorse.  An  unfaithful  stew- 
ard, obliged  to  render  his  accounts  to  generous  and 
confiding  masters,  could  not  carry  a  face  darker  and 
more  marked  with  care.  He  had,  besides,  put  his 
only  remaining  arm  behind  his  back  in  so  positive  a 
manner,  that  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  the  new- 
comers ventured  to  offer  him  their  hands.  This  appa- 
rition was,  without  doubt,  little  in  harmony  with  what 
Fanny's  father  and  fiance  had  expected,  for  there  was 
a  moment  of  embarrassed  silence  after  the  four  men 
were  seated,  which  the  Baron  was  the  first  to  break ; 
then  he  commenced,  in  his  weighed,  measured  voice — a 
voice  which  treated  the  words  as  the  weighing-machine 
of  an  usurer  treats  gold  pieces,  weighing  them  to  the 
milligramme  precisely : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  think  our  sentiments  are  sufficiently  in 
accord  to  establish  at  the  start  a  point  which  should 
dominate  our  meeting.     ,     .     .    We  are  here,  it  is  well 


184  COSMOPOLIS. 

understood,  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between  two  men, 
two  gentlemen  whom  we  know,  whom  we  esteem — I 
could  better  say,  whom  we  like  equally  well."  He 
turned  successively  to  each  of  his  three  listeners  as  he 
pronounced  these  words,  and  all  bowed,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  Marquis.  Hafner  stopped  a  moment  at 
this  abstention.  He  gazed  at  the  nobleman  with  his 
habitual  look  of  reading  to  the  depth  of  consciences,  to 
find  out  what  they  were  worth.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that  Chapron's  first  second  was  a  crank,  and  then  he 
continued :  "  This  proposition  settled,  I  will  ask  you  to 
read  this  little  paper.  Here  it  is."  He  had  taken  out 
of  his  pocket  a  paper  folded  four  times,  and  adjusted 
on  the  end  of  his  nose  his  famous  gold-rimmed  glasses : 
"  It  is  a  very  little  thing,  one  of  these  '  directives,'  as 
M.  de  Moltke  says,  which  answer  as  a  guide  for  one 
operation,  a  species  of  report,  which  we  will  modify 
after  discussing  it.  In  fact  it  is  a  landmark  to  start 
from.     .     .     ." 

"  Pardon  me.  Monsieur,"  Montfanon  said,  interrupt- 
ing him,  his  bushy  eyebrows  drawn  into  a  fierce  frown, 
recalling  pictures  of  the  celebrated  field-marshal,  and 
stopping  by  a  gesture  the  reader,  who  in  his  surprise 
let  his  eye-glass  fall  upon  the  table  on  which  his  elbow 
rested;  "I  regret,"  he  continued,  "  very  much  being 
obliged  to  tell  you  that  we  will  never,  M.  Dorsenne 
and  myself,"  and  he  turned  toward  Dorsenne,  who 
made  the  equivocal  gesture  of  a  man  very  much  put  out, 
**  that  we  will  never,  I  repeat,  admit  the  position  you 
have  taken.  You  have  pretended  that  we  are  here  for 
the  purpose  of  effecting  a  work  of  conciliation.  That  is 
possible.  ...  I  grant  you  that  that  is  desirable.  But 
of  that  I  know  nothing,  and  permit  me  to  say  to  you 
that  you  know  nothing  either.  I  am  here,  we  are  here, 
M.  Dorsenne  and  myself,"  and  he  turned  again  toward 
Julien,  who  again  made  his  equivocal  gesture, "  to  listen 
to  the  grievances  which  M.  le  Comte  Gorka  has  charged 
you  to  formulate  to  M.  Florent  Chapron's  mandatories. 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES   OF   AN   OLD   CHOUAN.     185 

Present  your  grievances,  and  we  will  discnss  them. 
Present  the  reparations  which  you  desire  in  the  name 
of  your  client,  and  we  will  discuss  them  also.  The  little 
papers  will  come  later,  if  they  come  at  all,  and  once 
more,  neither  you  nor  I  know  what  will  be  the  out- 
come of  this  conversation,  nor  should  we  know  it  be- 
fore establishing  our  facts." 

"  There  has  been  a  misunderstanding.  Monsieur," 
said  Ardea,  whom  Montfanon's  discourse  had  somewhat 
irritated.  He  could  not,  any  more  than  Hafner,  under- 
stand the  very  simple  and  yet  very  strange  character  of 
the  Marquis.  He  added:  "I  have  been  in  many  affairs — 
four  times  as  second,  once  as  principal,  and  without  any 
discussion,  I  made  use  of  M.  le  Baron  Hafner's  plan, 
which  he  has  just  proposed  to  you,  and  which  in  itself 
is  a  very  speedy  way  of  reaching  what  you  very  cor- 
rectly term  establishment  of  the  facts." 

"  I  am  ignorant  of  the  number  of  your  affairs,  Mon- 
sieur," replied  Montfanon,  much  more  nervous  now  that 
Hafner's  future  son-in-law  had  entered  into  the  discus- 
sion ;  "  but  since  it  has  pleased  you  to  acquaint  us  with 
the  fact,  I  would  tell  you  also,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  do 
so,  that  I  have  fought  seven  times,  and  been  second  at 
least  fourteen  times.  .  .  .  It  is  true  that  this  was  at 
a  time  when  the  chief  of  your  house  was  Monsieur  your 
father,  if  my  memory  serves  me,  the  deceased  Prince 
Urban,  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  near  His 
Holiness,  when  I  was  in  the  Zouaves.  He  was  a  fine 
specimen  of  a  Roman  nobleman,  sir,  and  one  who 
carried  his  name  proudly.  ...  I  tell  you  this  to 
prove  to  you  that  I  also  have  some  knowledge  in  the 
matter  of  duels.  .  .  .  Well !  We  always  considered 
that  seconds  were  for  the  purpose  of  arranging  affairs 
which  were  arrangeable,  but  also  for  regulating  as  they 
saw  best  affairs  which  were  past  arranging.  .  .  .  This 
is  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell,  we  are  here  for  that, 
and  for  nothing  but  that." 

"  Are  these  gentlemen  of  the  same  opinion  ?  "  asked 


186  COSMOPOLIS. 

Hafner,  in  a  conciliating  voice,  as  lie  consulted  first  Dor- 
senne  and  then  Ardea,  witli  a  movement  of  his  head. 
"  I  do  not  hold  absolutely  to  my  method,"  he  continued, 
refolding  his  paper  and  slipping  it  into  his  vest-pocket. 
*•'  Let  us  establish  our  facts,  as  you  say.  M,  le  Comte 
Gorka,  our  friend,  considers  himself  to  have  been  very 
gravely  offended,  very  gravely,  by  M.  Florent  Chapron, 
in  the  course  of  a  discussion  which  took  place  in  a 
public  square.  M.  Chapron  allowed  himself  to  be  car- 
ried away,  as  you  know,  gentlemen,  to  the  point  of  an 
—  how  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  excitement,  which  was  not 
consummated,  thanks  to  M.  Gorka's  presence  of  mind. 
.  .  .  But  nevertheless,  effectual  or  not,  the  men- 
ace was  there.  M.  Gorka  was  offended,  and  he  de- 
mands satisfaction.  I  do  not  think  that  there  can  be 
any  doubt  upon  this  point  of  departure,  which  is  the 
origin  of  the  affair,  and  in  fact  the  whole  affair." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  again,  Monsieur,"  replied  Mont- 
fanon,  dryly,  who  no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  dissim- 
ulate his  ill-humor.  "  M.  Dorsenne  and  myself  can- 
not accept  your  manner  of  putting  the  question.  You 
admit  that  M.  Chapron's  excitement  was  not  followed 
by  any  bad  consequences,  by  reason  of  M.  Gorka's  pres- 
ence of  mind.  We  pretend  that  there  was  on  the  part 
of  M.  Chapron  a  gesture,  hardly  perceptible  and  which 
he  himself  restrained.  .  .  .  Consequently  you  attrib- 
ute to  M.  le  Comte  Gorka  the  position  of  injured  one ; 
you  are  going  too  quickly.  He  is  but  the  challenger  so 
far.     That  is  very  different." 

"  But  he  has  the  right,  being  the  injured  one,"  inter- 
rupted Ardea.  "  Mastered  or  not,  the  simple  gesture 
constitutes  a  menace  of  violence.  I  did  not  pretend  to 
set  myself  up  as  a  fighter,  in  recalling  my  only  duel. 
But  that  is  the  A  B  C  of  the  Codice  cavalleresco :  '  If 
the  injury  be  followed  by  an  act  of  violence,  he  who  re- 
ceived the  blow  is  the  injured  one,  and  the  menace  of 
violence  is  equivalent  to  an  act  of  violence.  And  the 
injured  one,  who  has  received  or  been  threatened  by  an 


THE   INCONSISTENCIES    OF    AN   OLD   CIIOUAN.     187 

act  of  violence,  has  the  choice  of  a  duel,  the  arms  or 
conditions.'  Consult  your  authorities  and  ours,  Cha- 
teauvillars  and  DuVerg-er,  Angelini  and  Gelli,  they  all 
agree." 

"  I  regret  that  fact  for  their  sake,"  said  Montfanon,  and 
he  looked  at  the  Prince  with  a  frown  which  was  almost 
menacing ;  "  for  it  is  an  opinion  which  can  be  main- 
tained neither  in  general,  nor  in  this  particular  case. 
The  proof  is  that  a  fighter,  as  you  have  just  said  " — his 
voice  trembled  in  remembrance  of  the  insolent  willing-- 
ness  of  the  other  to  insult  him — "  a  bravo,  to  use  the 
word  of  your  country,  would  only  need,  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  legitimate  assassination,  to  insult  the 
one  who  stood  facing  him  by  words  of  menace.  The  in- 
sulted one  replies  by  an  involuntary,  but  afterward  re- 
strained, gesture,  of  the  significance  of  which  there  may 
have  been  a  misunderstanding,  and  you  admit  that  the 
bravo  is  the  injured  one,  and  that  he  can  choose  his 
weapons  ? " 

"But,  Monsieur,"  said  Hafner,  visibly  annoyed,  so 
much  did  the  ill-will  of  the  nobleman  irritate  him 
and  jar  against  his  idea  of  a  practical  and  easy  arrange- 
ment, "  what  are  you  trying  to  reach  ?  Do  you  think 
you  can  gain  your  point  by  raising  up  such  chicanery 
as  that  ?  " 

"  Chicanery ! "  cried  Montfanon,  half  rising. 

"  Montfanon ! "  supplicated  Dorsenne,  jumping  up  and 
trying  to  force  the  terrible  man  into  his  seat  again. 

"  I  take  back  the  word,"  said  the  Baron;  "  if  it  offends 
you.  ,  .  .  Nothing  is  further  from  my  thoughts. 
.  .  .  I  repeat  that  I  make  you  an  apology,  Monsieur 
le  Marquis.  .  .  .  But  come,  tell  us  what  you  desire 
for  your  principal;  that  is  very  simple.  .  .  ,  And 
then  we  will  do  our  best  to  make  our  desires  agree  with 
those  of  our  principal.  .  .  .  It  is  just  the  mere  set- 
tlement of  a  lump  job.     .     .     ." 

"  No,  Monsieur,"  said  Montfanon,  with  insolent  sever- 
ity, "  it  is  an  act  of  justice  to  perform,  and  that  is  very 


188  COSMOPOLIS. 

difficult  also.  "What  M.  Dorsenne  and  myself  desire  is 
this,"  he  continued,  in  a  harsh  voice :  "  M.  le  Comte 
Gorka  has  insulted  M.  Chajiron.  Let  me  finish,"  he 
said,  in  answer  to  a  simultaneous  gesture  from  Ardea 
and  Hafner.  "  Yes,  gentlemen,  he  must  have  insulted 
him  very  grievously,  for  M.  Chapron,  known  to  us  for 
his  perfect  courtesy,  to  even  attempt  the  little  impatient 
motion  of  which  you  spoke  a  short  while  ago.  Now  it  has 
been  understood  between  these  two  gentlemen,  for  reas- 
ons of  delicacy  which  we  must  accept  as  they  give  them 
to  us — it  has  been  understood,  I  say,  that  the  nature  of 
the  insult  offered  by  M.  Gorka  to  M.  Chapron  shall  not  be 
divulged.  But  we  have  the  right,  and  I  add,  it  is  our 
duty,  to  measure  the  gravity  of  this  insult  by  the  excess 
of  anger  roused  in  M.  Chapron — I  conclude,  that  to  be 
just,  the  report  of  conciliation,  if  we  accept  it,  must  con- 
tain reciprocal  concessions.  M.  le  Comte  Gorka  will 
declare  his  words  revoked,  and  M.  Chapron  will  regret 
his  excitement." 

"  But  that  is  impossible,"  cried  the  Prince ;  "  Gorka 
will  never  accept  those  conditions." 

"  You  positively  insist  upon  their  fighting  ?  "  gasped 
Hafner. 

"  And  why  not  1 "  said  Montfanon,  exasperated.  "  That 
is  better  than  that  one  should  keep  his  insults  and  the 
other  his  blow  from  the  cane." 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  replied  the  Baron,  as  he  rose  after 
the  silence  which  followed  this  imprudent  outburst 
from  a  man  who  had  lost  control  of  himself,  "  we  will 
confer  anew  with  our  principal.  If  you  wish  we  will  re- 
sume this  conversation  again  to-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock, 
if  that  hour  suits  you,  here  or  at  any  other  place  con- 
venient to  you.  You  will  excuse  us,  M.  le  Marquis, 
Dorsenne  has  doubtless  told  you  in  what  particular 
circumstances " 

"  Oh !  yes,  he  has  told  me,"  Montfanon  interrupted 
him,  looking  at  the  Prince  again,  and  in  so  sad  a  man- 
ner that  the  latter  felt  himself  blushing  under  this 


THE  INCONSISTENCIES   OF  AN   OLD   OHOUAN.    189 

strange  gaze,  but  found  it  impossible  to  become  angry 
at  it.  Dorsenne  only  had  time  to  cut  short  all  explana- 
tion, by  replying  himself  to  Justus  Hafner, 

"  Will  you  make  this  appointment  at  my  house  ?  That 
will  give  less  cause  for  gossip." 

"  You  did  well  to  change  the  place,"  said^Montfanon 
five  minutes  later  to  his  young  friend,  as  he  stepped  in- 
to the  carriage  waiting  for  them.  They  had  descended 
the  staircase  without  speaking,  so  regretful  was  this 
brave  and  unreasonable  person,  the  Marquis,  of  his 
strangely  provoking  attitude  of  a  few  moments  ago. 
*'  What  would  you  have  ? "  he  added — "  this  desecrated 
palace,  the  insolent  luxury  of  this  robber,  this  Prince 
who  is  willing  to  sell  his  family  name,  this  Baron  whose 
past  is  so  shady ;  I  could  contain  myself  no  longer !  This 
Baron,  with  his  directives !  What  words  to  quote  from 
a  German  to  a  soldier  who  fought  in  '70 — M.  de  Moltke ! 
And  his  '  lump  job,'  these  terms  of  the  Bourse  applied 
to  honor,  and  this  awful  politeness,  in  which  there  is 
both  servility  and  insolence!  But  I  am  not  pleased 
with  myself,  I  am  not  pleased  at  all !  " 

There  was  in  his  voice  so  much  good  fellowship,  so 
visible  a  remorse  for  not  having  conquered  himself  in 
so  grave  a  circumstance,  that  Dorsenne  pressed  his  hand 
instead  of  reproaching  him. 

"  Leave  it  until  to-morrow — we  will  re-arrange  every- 
thing.    It  only  stands  over  until  then." 

"You  say  that  to  console  me,"  said  the  Marquis,  "but 
I  know  that  everything  will  go  wrong — and  it  is  my 
fault!  Perhaps  we  may  be  able  to  render  no  other 
service  to  our  brave  Chapron,  than  to  arrange  a  meet- 
ing for  him  under  less  dangerous  circumstances.  Ah ! 
I  let  my  unhappy  temper  get  the  best  of  me  at  the  very 
worst  possible  time.  But  then,  again,  why  did  Gorka 
choose  such  a  second  ?  It  is  inconceivable !  Did  you 
notice  him,  as  he  pronounced  that  cabalistic  name  of 
gentleman,  which  means  for  those  rascals :  *  Steal,  be- 
tray, assassinate,  but  have  handsomely  appointed  car- 


190  COSMOPOLIS. 

riages,  an  elegant  house,  well  served  dinners,  and  new, 
elegant  clothes  ? '  No  !  I  suffered  too  much !  Ah !  but 
that  was  not  right,  and  on  such  a  day  too.  God !  how 
long  the  old  man  takes  to  die ! "  'he  added,  in  so  low  a 
voice  that  his  companion  did  not  hear  him. 


VII. 

A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO. 

The  remorse  which  Montfanon  so  naively  expressed, 
once  he  was  himself  again,  was  doomed  to  become 
much  greater  in  this  honest  man's  heart.  He  was 
right  when  he  said  from  the  very  beginning  that  the 
affair  had  a  bad  look.  A  quarrel  complicated  by  an 
act  of  violence,  or  an  attempt  at  an  act  of  violence,  as 
he  had  remarked  himself  at  Florent's  first  words,  was 
not  easily  regulated  amicably.  It  called  for  the  most 
diplomatic  treatment.  The  slightest  loss  of  self-confi- 
dence on  the  part  of  the  seconds  was  equivalent  to  a 
catastrophe.  As  it  sometimes  happens  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances, events  precipitated  themselves,  and  the 
pessimistic  forebodings  of  the  irritable  Marquis  were 
verified  almost  as  soon  as  spoken.  He  and  Dorsenne 
had  hardly  left  the  Savorelli  Palace  before  Gorka,  who 
had  been  invited  by  the  Baron  to  call  at  ten  o'clock, 
appeared.  The  vehemence  with  which  he  repulsed  the 
proposition  of  an  arrangement  which  entailed  excuses 
on  his  part,  served  for  the  prudent  Hafner  and  the  no 
less  prudent  Ardea,  as  a  signal  for  a  definite  with- 
drawal. It  was  only  too  evident  to  these  two  men 
that  no  conciliation  could  be  reached  in  dealing  with 
a  person  so  headstrong  as  the  most  authoritative  of 
Florent's  seconds  had  shown  himself  to  be.  They 
asked  Gorka  with  one  accord  to  release  them  from 
their  promise.  They  had  so  legitimate  an  excuse  in 
urging  the  fact  of  Fanny's  betrothal,  that  Gorka  could 


A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  191 

not  refuse  to  release  them.  This  withdrawal  was  a 
second  catastrophe/  In  his  impatience  to  find  new 
seconds,  who  would  stand  by  him  through  thick  and 
thin,  Gorka  hastened  to  the  Cercle  de  la  Chasse. 
Chance  favored  him,  and  he  met  two  old  comrades : 
Marquis  Cibo,  a  Roman,  and  Prince  Pietrapertosa,  a 
Neapolitan,  who  were  certainly  the  best  he  could  have 
chosen  to  push  the  matter  to  its  worst  consequences. 
The  two  young-  men,  belonging  to  the  highest  nobility 
in  Italy,  both  very  intelligent,  very  loyal,  and  veiy 
good,  belonged  to  that  particular  class  which  is  met 
with  in  Vienna,  in  Madrid,  in  St.  Petersburg,  as  in 
Milan  and  Rome,  of  foreign  clubmen  hypnotized  by 
Paris.  And  such  a  Paris !  That  of  the  elegant  and 
resounding  fete,  that  which  passes  the  mornings  prac- 
tising the  fashionable  sport,  the  afternoons,  going  to 
the  races,  hanging  around  the  fencing  halls  and  the 
little  contraband  hotels,  the  evenings  at  the  thea- 
tre, the  nights  in  gambling!  That  Paris  which  emi- 
grates, according  to  the  season,  to  Monte  Carlo  for  the 
rook  shooting,  to  Deauville  for  the  race  week,  to  Aix- 
les-Bains  for  the  baccarat  season,  which  possesses 
its  own  manners,  its  own  language,  its  own  chronicles, 
and  even  its  own  cosmopolitanism,  for  it  exercises 
over  certain  minds,  even  across  Europe,  so  despotic  a 
sway  that  Cibo  and  his  friend  Pietrapertosa  never 
looked  at  a  French  newspaper  which  did  not  belong  to 
the  Boulevard.  Their  first  glance  was  for  the  columns 
which  related  the  latest  and  innermost  gossip  in  the 
demi-monde,  the  last  supper  given  by  a  renowned 
bon-viveur,  the  details  of  the  grand  balls  given  in 
such  and  such  a  fashionable  circle,  the  result  of  a 
pistol  match  at  Gastinne's,  and  that  of  a  match  between 
two  celebrated  swordsmen.  It  was  an  endless  source 
of  conversation  between  them  to  know  if  the  witty 
Gladys  Harvey  was  more  beautiful  than  Leona  d'As- 
ti,  if  Machault  took  his  "  centres  "  quicker  than  those 
of  General  Gamier,  if  Lautrec  would  or  would  not 


192  COSMOPOLIS, 

hold  out  in  the  game  he  was  playing.  Imprisoned  in 
Rome  by  the  condition  of  their  resources,  and  also  by 
the  will,  one  of  an  uncle  and  the  other  of  a  grandfather, 
whose  heirs  they  were,  their  whole  year  was  com- 
prised in  the  month  during  the  winter  which  they 
usually  passed  in  Nice,  and  the  six  weeks'  trip  to 
Paris  about  the  time  of  the  Grand  Prix.  Jealous  one 
of  the  other,  they  disputed  with  the  most  comical 
rivalry  the  slightest  gossip  of  the  Cercle  des  Champs- 
Elysees  or  the  Rue  Royale,  during  their  stay  in  the 
Eternal  City,  and  they  affected,  while  in  company  with 
their  companions  of  the  Chasse,  the  sublime  attitude  of 
oracles  when  the  telegraph  brought  them  the  great 
windfall  of  a  famous  Parisian  divorce  case  to  dilate 
upon.  This  inoffensive  mania  had  made'the  fat  and 
red  Cibo,  and  the  tall  and  emaciated  Pietrapertosa,  two 
delightful  fanatics  for  Dorsenne  to  study  during  his 
Roman  winter,  and  they  were  to  be,  and  did  become, 
two  terrible  mandatories  in  the  service  of  Gorka's  ven- 
geance. With  what  joy,  and  yet  how  seriously,  they 
accepted  this  mission,  those  who  have  studied  swords- 
men will  easily  understand  after  reading  this  simple 
sketch,  and  also  with  what  rigor  and  correctness,  at  the 
moment  of  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  they  pre- 
sented themselves  to  confer  with  the  seconds  of  their 
principal's  adversary !  Briefly,  at  half -past  twelve  the 
meeting  was  arranged  in  its  most  minute  details. 
Montfanon's  energy,  employed  in  a  discussion  lasting 
through  three  long  hours,  had  only  succeeded  in 
ameliorating  a  few  of  the  conditions ;  four  balls  were 
to  be  exchanged  at  twenty-four  paces  at  the  given 
command.  The  duel  was  arranged  to  take  place  the 
following  morning,  in  an  enclosed  field  attached  to  a 
small  inn  owned  by  Cibo  in  the  open  Roman  Cam- 
pagna,  not  very  far  away  from  Csecilia  Metella's  classi- 
cal tomb.  In  order  to  obtain  this  concession  of  dis- 
tance from  the  city,  and  the  use  of  new  weapons,  it  had 
been  necessary  for  the  Marquis  to  mention  the  still 


A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  193 

legendary  name  to  the  provincial  and  the  stranger,  that 
of  Gramont-Oaderousse,  to  invest  him  in  the  eyes  of 
Gorka's  two  seconds  with  a  prestige  which  was  the 
means  of  winning  for  him  these  concessions.  Sic 
transit  gloria  mundi !  As  he  left  this  meeting  the 
good  man  really  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  And  it  is  my  fault,"  he  moaned,  "  it  is  my  fault. 
We  could  have  made  such  good  terms  with  Hafner,  if 
we  had  only  met  him  half-way.  And  he  made  the  offer 
himself.  .  .  .  Brave  Chapron !  I  am  the  one  who 
has  put  him  in  all  this  trouble.  I  owe  it  to  him  not  to 
abandon  him  and  to  follow  him  to  the  end.  And  here 
I  am  again  assisting  at  a  duel,  and  at  my  age  too  !  Did 
you  see  how  those  young  snobs  changed  their  tone 
when  I  spoke  of  my  encounter  with  Caderousse "?  Fifty- 
one  years  and  one  month  old,  and  I  do  not  know  how  to 
behave  myself  yet!  Let  us  hasten  to  the  Via  Leo- 
pard!. I  wish  to  ask  my  poor  friend's  pardon,  do  you 
hear  me,  and  give  him  some  advice.  We  will  take 
him  to  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  has  a  garden  near 
the  Villa  Pamphili,  quite  out  of  the  way.  We  will 
spend  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  making  him  practise. 
Ah!  cursed  anger!  Yes,  and  it  was  so  easy  to  ac- 
cept the  other  one's  plan  yesterday.  With  two  or 
three  words  changed  I  am  sure  it  would  have  been 
acceptable " 

"Console  yourself,  Marquis,"  replied  Florent,  when 
the  disconsolate  old  nobleman  had  told  him  of  the  de- 
plorable results  of  his  negotiations.  "  I  like  it  better 
thus.  M.  Gorka  needed  correcting.  I  have  only  one  re- 
gret, and  that  is,  that  I  did  not  give  him  a  more  com- 
plete one.  As  I  am  to  fight  him,  all  the  same,  I  should 
at  least  have  had  more  for  my  money." 

"  And  you  have  never  practised  with  pistols  ?  "  Mont- 
fanon  asked  him. 

"  Bah !  I  have  hunted  a  great  deal  and  I  consider 
myself  a  pretty  good  shot." 

"  There  is  all  the  difference  between  day  and  night," 


194  COSMOPOLIS. 

the  Marquis  said.  "  Hold  yourself  in  readiness.  Call 
for  me  at  three  o'clock,  and  I  will  give  you  a  lesson.  And 
may  there  be  a  God  for  the  brave !  " 

Though  riorent  deserved  this  praise,  from  the  gayety 
of  which  his  answer  was  a  proof,  the  first  few  moments 
in  which  he  was  alone,  after  his  two  seconds  left  him, 
were  very  painful  ones.  Marechal  Ney,  who  knew  what 
he  was  talking  about,  put  words  of  sublime  brutality 
into  the  mouth  of  a  hero,  who,  during  that  famous  march 
on  Orcha,  uttered  but  this  one  complaint,  "Nous  ne 
sommes  pas  bien."  I  will  quote  the  reply,  as  it  is  ap- 
plicable to  human  nature  at  all  times ;     "  Where  is  the 

J F who  pretends  never  to  have  felt  fear  ? " 

What  Chapron  felt  during  those  few  moments  was  but 
a  very  legitimate  anguish,  a  weakness  which  came  over 
him  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  clock :  "  In  twenty -four 
hours  the  hands  will  point  to  the  same  hour.  And  I, 
will  I  still  be  alive  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  But  his  was  a 
manly  nature  and  well  able  to  conquer  itself.  He  strug- 
gled against  this  weakness,  and  in  waiting  for  the  time 
to  come,  when  he  was  to  meet  his  friends,  he  resolved  to 
write  out  his  last  wishes.  For  years  his  intention  had 
been  to  leave  his  foi'tune  to  his  brother-in-law.  He 
wrote  his  will,  in  this  sense,  his  hand  trembling  a  little 
at  first,  but  becoming  firmer  as  he  wrote.  The  will 
drawn  up,  he  had  the  courage  to  write  two  letters,  one 
addressed  to  his  brother-in-law,  the  other  to  his  sister. 
Wlien  he  had  finished  these  preparations  the  clock  said 
twenty  minutes  of  three. 

"Still  seventeen  hours  and  a  half  to  wait,"  he  said, 
"but  I  think  I  have  conquered  my  nerves.  A  good 
brisk  walk  will  settle  them  entirely." 

He  resolved  to  go  on  foot  to  the  rendezvous  ap- 
pointed by  Montfanon.  He  had  carefully  put  the  three 
envelopes  in  his  desk  and  locked  the  drawer.  He  as- 
certained as  he  went  out  that  Lincoln  was  not  in  his 
studio,  then  he  asked  the  footman  if  Mrs.  Maitland  was 
home.    He  was  told  that  she  was  getting  ready  to  go 


A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  195 

Out,  and  that  her  carriage  had  been  ordered  for  three 
o'clock. 

"  Good,"  he  said,  "  neither  one  nor  the  other  has  the 
slightest  suspicion.    I  am  safe." 

How  astonished  he  would  have  been  if  he  could, 
while  his  slow  and  indolent  steps  took  him  to  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Capitol,  have  returned  in  spirit  to 
the  smoking-room  which  he  had  just  left !  He  would 
have  seen  a  woman  glide  in  noiselessly,  by  the  stealth- 
ily opened  door,  with  the  precautions  of  a  criminal. 
He  would  have  seen  her  rummaging,  yet  still  without 
disarranging  them,  among  the  papers  scattered  over 
the  table.  She  shook  out  the  blotting  pad  and  then 
she  carried  the  leaves  to  the  looking-glass  and  tried  to 
decipher  the  addresses  whose  imprints  it  bore.  He 
would  finally  have  seen  this  woman  take  a  bunch  of 
keys  from  her  pocket.  She  fitted  one  to  the  very 
drawer  which  Florent  had  just  closed  so  carefully,  and 
took  out  the  three  envelopes  which  he  had  deposited 
therein  without  having  sealed  them.  And  this  woman, 
who  read  thus,  with  a  face  contracted  with  agony,  the 
papers  which  she  had  discovered,  thanks  to  a  trick,  the 
abominable  indelicacy  of  which  attested  to  shameful 
habits  of  spying,  was  his  own  sister — this  Lydia  whom 
he  thought  so  sweet  and  so  simple,  and  to  whom  he  had 
written  so  tender  a  farewell,  in  case  he  should  be 
killed  —  this  Lydia,  whom  he  would  have  been  as- 
tounded thus  to  have  seen,  so  disfigured  by  passion  was 
this  countenance,  which  passed  for  insignificant  in  its 
prettiness.  She  herself,  this  audacious  spy,  trembled 
so  violently  that  she  could  hardly  stand.  Her  eyes 
were  dilated,  her  breast  palpitated,  her  teeth  chat- 
tered, so  overcome  was  she  by  the  tenor  of  what  she 
had  learned  and  of  what  she  was  the  cause.  Was  it  not 
she  who  had  written  the  anonymous  letters  to  Gorka 
to  denounce  Mme.  Steno's  intrigue  with  Maitland  ? 
Was  it  not  she  who  had  chosen,  for  the  purpose  of 
poisoning    those    letters,  phrases    best  calculated  to 


196  COSMOPOLIS. 

strike  the  betrayed  lover  in  the  most  sensitive  part  of 
his  self-love  ?  She  who  had  hastened  the  jealous  one's 
return,  with  the  certainty  of  thus  bringing  a  tragic 
vengeance  upon  the  abhorred  heads  of  her  husband 
and  the  Venetian  ?  This  vengeance  had  burst  like  a 
thunder-clap  in  reality.  But  upon  whom  ?  Upon  the 
only  person  in  all  the  world  whom  Lydia  loved,  up- 
on this  brother,  whom  she  now  saw  in  danger  through 
her  fault,  and  this  idea  was  so  terrible  to  her  that  she 
sank  into  the  chair  in  which  Florent  had  been  seated 
but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  repeating  in  a  frenzied 
voice : 

"  He  is  going  to  fight !  He  is  going  to  fight ;  he,  in- 
stead of  the  other  one ! " 

The  whole  moral  history  of  this  stormy  and  clouded 
soul  expressed  itself  in  this  cry,  in  which  impassioned 
anxiety  for  a  beloved  brother  was  intensified  by  a  fero- 
cious hatred  for  her  husband.  This  hatred  itself  was  the 
outcome  of  a  childhood  and  youth,  without  an  explana- 
tion of  which  so  criminal  a  duplicity  in  so  young  a  crea- 
ture would  be  unintelligible. 

This  childhood  and  youth  was  in  reality  a  forerunner 
of  what  Lydia  would  one  day  be.  But  who  was  there 
to  at  once  control  this  nature,  in  which  the  inherited 
traits  of  an  oppressed  race  manifested  themselves,  as 
we  have  already  remarked,  by  its  two  most  detestable 
dispositions — hypocrisy  and  perfidy  ?  Who  remembers, 
besides,  in  bringing  up  children,  this  truth,  as  neglected 
in  practice  as  it  is  commonplace  in  theory,  tliat  the 
faults  of  the  tenth  year  will  be  the  vices  of  the  thir- 
tieth ?  As  a  very  little  girl,  Lydia  invented  lies  as 
naturally  as  her  brother  always  told  the  truth.  The 
germ  of  another  fault  showed  itself  in  her  about  this 
time — she  developed  an  instinctive,  unreasonable,  al- 
most diseased  jealousy.  She  could  not  see  a  new  toy 
in  Florent's  hands  without  commencing  to  sulk  imme- 
diately.   She  could  not  see  her  brother  caressing  their 


A    FIIIST   COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  197 

father,  but  she  must  throw  herself  between  them,  and 
she  was  miserable  and  unhappy  if  he  played  with  boys 
of  his  own  ago  and  neglected  her.  If  Napoleon  Chap- 
ron  had  been  as  much  interested  in  problems  of  charac- 
ter as  he  was  in  those  of  selling  his  cotton  and  his 
sugar-cane  to  the  best  advantage,  he  would  have  en- 
deavored, frightened  at  their  intensity,  to  uproot  the 
first  signs  of  so  wicked  a  personality.  But,  like  his 
son,  on  this  point  he  was  one  of  those  simple  men  in- 
capable of  judging  where  they  loved.  Besides,  Lydia 
and  Florent  represented  for  the  wounded  sensibility 
of  this  half-pariah  the  only  loving  corner,  the  fresh 
and  young  consolation  of  his  widowerhood  and  mis- 
anthropy. He  loved  them  with  that  idolatry  which 
hard  workers  feel  for  their  children,  and  which  is  one  of 
the  most  dangerous  forms  of  paternal  tenderness,  when 
the  mother's  lucidity  is  not  near  to  correct  its  weak- 
ness. The  budding  vices  developing  in  Lydia  were 
but  childish  fancies  to  the  planter.  "  Does  she  lie  ?  " 
cried  the  excellent  man,  "  How  bright  she  is  !  "  "  Was 
she  jealous  ?  "  He  sighed  as  he  pressed  this  slight 
form  to  his  great  heaii.  "  How  sensitive  she  is  !  "  The 
result  of  this  blind  egotism — for  to  love  a  child  thus  is 
io  love  it  for  yourself,  and  not  for  its  good — was,  that 
the  little  girl  Avas  already,  before  her  entry  at  Boehamp- 
ton,  a  creature  profoundly,  intimately  spoiled  in  the 
most  essential  parts  of  her  heart.  But  she  was  so  pret- 
ty, she  owed  to  the  singular  mixture  of  the  three  bloods 
in  her  an  originality  of  grace  which  was  so  seductive, 
that  the  sharp  glance  of  an  instructress  endowed  with 
great  intelligence  would  alone  have  discerned,  under 
this  exquisite  exterior,  the  already  strongly  marked 
lines  of  her  true  character.  Such  instructresses  are 
rare,  and  more  especially  so  in  convents  than  elsewhere. 
There  was  not  at  Boehampton,  when  Lydia  entered  this 
pious  house,  which  was  to  become  so  fatal  to  her,  for  a 
reason  precisely  contrary  to  that  which  transformed 
riorent's  stay  at  Beaumont  into  a  paradise  of  love,  the 


198  COSMOPOLIS. 

same  open  friendship  and  good-fellowship  among  her 
associates. 

Among  the  boarders  with  whom  Lydia  was  to  finish 
her  education  were  four  young  girls  from  Philadel- 
phia, older  by  two  years  than  the  new-comer,  and  who, 
like  her,  had  just  left  America  for  the  first  time.  They 
held  that  unconquerable  prejudice  against  black  blood, 
and  that  w'onderful  perspicacity  to  detect  it,  even  in  the 
most  infinitesimal  doses,  which  distinguishes  the  true 
Yankee.  The  little  Chapron  had  been  introduced  as 
being  French  ;  they  hesitated  at  first  before  a  suspicion 
which  was  quickly  changed  to  a  certainty,  and  this  cer- 
tainty to  an  aversion  which  they  took  little  pains  to 
hide.  They  would  not  have  been  children,  had  they  not 
been  ferocious.  They  commenced  to  inflict  a  thousand 
petty  insults  on  poor  Lydia,  without  always  succeeding 
in  propagating  the  disdain  which  they  publicly  ex- 
preBsed  for  her.  Convents  and  colleges  are  but  a  repro- 
duction in  miniature  of  human  society.  There,  also, 
unjust  contempt  is  like  the  "furet  du  bois,"  which  runs 
from  hand  to  hand  and  always  returns  to  its  starting- 
point.  The  contemptuous  are  always  despised  by  some 
one  themselves — a  merited  chastisement  which,  however, 
does  not  correct  our  pride  any  more  than  the  other  pun- 
ishments with  which  life  abounds  cures  our  other  faults. 
Lydia's  persecutors  were  themselves  the  objects  of  con- 
tempt for  their  English  sisters,  on  account  of  certain 
peculiarities  in  their  speech  and  nasal  pronunciation. 
Their  animosity  to  the  pretty  little  French  girl  was  a 
Godsend  to  her.  This  convent  drama  gave  rise,  as  you 
can  well  imagine,  to  a  series  of  mean  episodes,  insignifi- 
cant in  reality  and  of  which  the  superiors  gained  very 
little  knowledge.  Children  have  passions  as  vivid  as 
ours,  but  always  cut  into  by  their  play  and  so  rapid  in 
their  transition  that  it  is  impossible  to  measure  their 
strength  exactly,  nor  to  describe  them,  except  by  their 
effects,  which  are  generally  in  the  far  future.  Lydia's 
self-love  was  wounded  in  an  incurable  manner  by  this 


A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  199 

revelation  of  her  strange  origin.  Certain  incidents  of 
her  American  life  came  back  to  her,  and  she  understood 
them  better.  She  recalled  her  grandmother's  portrait, 
her  complexion  and  hands,  and  her  father's  hair,  and 
she  conceived  that  shameful  hatred  for  her  birth  and 
her  family  which  is  much  more  frequently  to  be  found 
in  children  than  we  imagine  in  our  optimism,  and 
among  the  leavens  of  inner  demoralization  the  worst. 
Parents  of  humble  origin  who  give  their  sons  a  liberal 
education  are  always  exposed  to  it,  and  social  hatreds 
thus  date  from  the  moment  in  which  a  boy  of  twelve 
blushes  to  himself  at  his  family's  position.  With  Lydia, 
so  instinctively  jealous  and  lying,  these  first  ulcerations 
but  added  to  her  jealousies  and  her  lies.  The  superior- 
ity, were  it  ever  so  slight,  of  one  of  her  companions, 
became  a  source  of  suffering  to  her,  and  she  undertook  to 
balance  by  personal  triumphs  this  difference  in  blood, 
which,  once  verified,  is  a  new  wound  to  a  sensitive 
nature.  To  assure  these  triumphs  for  herself,  she  set 
herself  out  to  attract  everyone  with  whom  she  came 
in  contact — ^mistresses  and  companions — and  she  com- 
menced to  practise  this  constant  comedy  of  attitudes 
and  sentiments,  to  which  this  fatal  desire  to  please 
leads  us  so  quickly ;  this  charming  and  dangerous  dis- 
position, which  tends  less  to  goodness  than  to  falseness. 
Much  better  inflict  on  others  the  harshness  of  an 
avowed  egotism  than  to  model  for  yourself,  unceas- 
ingly, a  soul  resembling  their  exactions.  At  eighteen, 
and  submissive  in  a  manner  to  this  constant  school  of 
deceit,  Lydia  was,  under  a  most  gracious  exterior,  a  being 
deeply,  though  unconsciously  perverse,  capable  of  but 
little  affection — her  only  love  was  given  to  her  brother — 
and  a  ready  prey  to  the  passions  of  hate,  which  are  a 
natural  harvest  for  proud,  harsh,  and  false  souls.  It  was 
one  of  these  passions,  the  most  murderous  of  all,  which 
marriage  had  developed  in  her — that  of  envy. 

This  hideous  vice,  one  of  those  which  lead  the  world, 
has  been  so  poorly  studied  by  the  moralists,  as  being 


2()0  COSMOPOLIS. 

SO  dishonorable,  doubtless,  for  the  heart  of  man,  as  to 
make  it  appear  almost  unreasonable.  Mme.  Maitland 
had  for  years  been  envious  of  her  husband,  but  envi- 
ous as  one  of  the  artist's  rivals  might  be,  envious  as 
one  pretty  woman  is  of  another,  as  a  banker  is  of  a 
rival  banker,  as  a  politician  of  his  political  adversary, 
with  that  fierce,  implacable  envy  which  wrings  our 
hearts  with  a  physical  agony  before  success,  and  intoxi- 
cates us  with  a  sensual  joy  before  disaster.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  limit  the  ravages  of  this  guilty  passion  to  the 
domain  of  professional  humiliation.  When  it  is  deep,  it 
does  not  attack  the  qualities  of  the  person  only,  it  vents 
itself  upon  the  person  also,  and  it  was  thus  that  Lydia 
envied  Lincoln.  Perhaps  the  analysis  of  this  sentiment, 
which  is  very  subtile  in  its  ugliness,  will  explain  itself 
sadly  to  those  who  will  follow  the  source  of  some  of  the 
antipathies  with  which  they  come  in  contact  among 
their  neighbors.  For  it  is  not  only  between  man  and 
wife  that  these  unavowed  envies  are  met  with,  it  is  be- 
tween lover  and  mistress,  friend  and  friend,  brother  and 
brother,  and  sometimes,  alas !  between  father  and  son 
and  mother  and  daughter!  Lydia  allowed  herself  to 
be  persuaded  into  marrying  Lincoln  Maitland,  partly 
from  obedience  to  her  brother's  wishes,  but  more  from 
vanity,  because  the  young  man  was  an  American,  a  na- 
tive of  the  United  States,  which  in  itself  was  a  species 
of  victory  gained  over  the  race  prejudice,  always  in 
her  thoughts,  but  of  which  she  never  spoke.  It  only 
took  three  months  of  married  life  to  see  that  Maitland 
would  never  forgive  himself  for  this  marriage.  Al- 
though he  affected  to  despise  his  countrymen,  and,  in 
fact,  he  held  no  ideas  in  common  with  a  coimtry  in 
which  he  had  not  set  his  foot  since  his  fifth  year, 
he  suffered  intensely  from  some  comments  made  in 
New  York  on  this  marriage,  rumors  of  which  had 
reached  him.  He  blamed  Lydia  for  this  humiliation 
and  made  her  feel  it.  The  birth  of  a  child  would  no 
doubt  have  modified  this  first  impression,  or  at  least 


A   FIRST  COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  801 

transformed  it,  or  softened  the  bitter  heart  of  this 
young  wife.  But  they  had  no  children.  They  had 
hardly  returned  from  their  wedding-  journey,  on  which 
Florent  had  accompanied  them,  before  their  life  rolled 
on  in  this  convention  of  silence,  which  is  the  base  of 
badly  assorted  households  ;  of  all  those  in  which,  to  use 
a  grand  and  simple  expression  of  the  people,  the  man 
and  wife  lived  not  heart  against  heart.  During  this  jour- 
ney through  Spain,  which  should  have  be  on  one  contin- 
uous enchantment,  the  young  wife  became  jealous  of  the 
evident  preference  which  Florent  displayed  for  Maitland 
over  her.  For  the  first  time  she  seemed  to  become  con- 
scious of  the  passionate  love  which  filled  her  brother's 
heart.  He  loved  her  also,  but  she  was  second.  This 
comparison  was  a  daily,  hourly  pricking,  which  soon 
became  a  real  wound.  Returning  to  Paris,  where  they 
spent  three  months,  this  wound  became  greater,  from  the 
fact  that  the  powerful  individuality  of  the  painter  im- 
mediately threw  his  wife's  individuality  into  the  shade, 
simply,  almost  mechanically^  as  a  great  tree  which  grows 
beside  a  little  one  steals  the  sun  and  air  from  the  latter. 
The  composite  society  of  amateurs,  artists,  and  writers 
who  came  to  Lincoln's  house  only  came  for  him.  The 
house  which  they  rented  was  arranged  but  for  him.  The 
few  changes  which  were  made  were  made  but  for  him. 
Briefly,  Lydia,  like  Florent,  was  carried  away  in  the 
orbit  of  the  most  despotic  force  in  the  world,  tha ;  of  a 
celebrated  talent.  A  whole  book  would  be  needed,  to 
paint  in  their  daily  truth  the  continuous  humiliations 
which  led  the  young  wife  to  hate  this  talent  and  this 
celebrity  with  as  much  ardor  as  Florent  adored  them. 
She  remained,  however,  an  honest  woman,  in  the  sense 
in  which  this  term  is  looked  upon  in  the  world,  which 
makes  all  dishonor  consist  in  crimes  of  love.  She  lived 
in  a  condition  of  suppressed  hysterics,  as  the  most  part 
of  natural-born  comedians  do,  and  in  consequence, 
unchanging  coldness.  In  fact,  she  allowed  the  instincts 
of  a  very  dishonest  person  to  develop  more  and  more  in 


202  COSMOPOLIS. 

her.  She  ended  by  hating-  Lincoln  with  an  aversion 
which  passed  from  physical  animality  to  things  of  in- 
telligence, passing  through  the  most  vulgar  details  of 
their  daily  life.  She  detested  that  pure  white  blood 
which  made  this  tall,  robust  young  fellow  so  admirable 
a  type  of  Anglo-Saxon  beauty,  beside  herself,  so  thin, 
as  though  dried  up,  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  her 
pretty  brunette  face.  She  detested  him  for  his  taste, 
for  this  natural  elegance,  which  knew  how  to  decorate 
this  places  they  lived  in,  while  she  had  in  her  an 
instinct  and  awkwardness  that  was  almost  barbarous 
for  the  least  arrangement  of  stuffs  and  colors.  When 
she  learned  of  the  progress  which  the  painter  was  mak- 
ing the  news  was  like  gall  to  her.  When  he  com- 
plained of  his  work  and  she  saw  him  a  prey  to  those 
dreadful  doubts  which  overcome  artists  who  lose  con- 
fidence in  themselves,  she  experienced  a  profound  joy, 
which  was  only  dashed  by  the  evidence  of  the  sadness 
into  which  these  struggles  of  Lincoln's  threw  Florent. 
She  never  saw  Chapron's  eyes  fixed  upon  Maitland,  with 
that  look  of  a  faithful  dog  who  exults  in  the  gayety  of 
his  master,  or  who  suffers  from  his  sadness,  without 
feeling,  as  Alba  Steno  did,  that  "  needle  in  the  heart." 
This  idolatrous  love  which  her  brother  offered  to  the 
painter  made  her  suffer  more  from  the  fact  that  she 
understood  with  the  infallible  perspicacity  of  anti- 
pathy how  much  he  was  duped.  She  read  the  hearts  of. 
the  two  Beaumont  playfellows  as  ah  open  book.  She 
knew  that  in  this  friendship,  as  it  always  happens,  one 
gave  up  everything,  to  receive  in  exchange  but  the  most 
brutal  of  acknowledgments,  that  which  a  hunter  gives 
to  a  faithful  dog.  As  to  enlightening  Florent  on  Lin- 
coln's character,  she  had  vainly  tried  to  do  so  by  those 
delicate  and  perfidious  insinuations  in  which  women 
excel.  All  she  had  succeeded  in  doing  was  to  recognize 
her  impotence,  and  thousands  of  hateful  impressions 
had  thus  accumulated  in  her  heart,  to  be  brought  forth 
in  one  of  those  frenzies  of  taciturn  rage  which  burst 


A   FIRST   COUSIN   TO   I  AGO.  203 

forth  on  the  first  occasion,  with  a  frightful  energ-y, 
against  no  matter  whom.  Our  ignorance  then  utters 
words  of  inconsistency,  aberration,  or  monstrosity.  There 
is  no  more  absolute  monster  in  the  moral  nature  than 
in  the  physical.  Crime  has  its  own  laws  of  develop- 
ment. Between  the  pretty  little  girl,  who  wept  on  see- 
ing a  new  toy  in  her  brother's  hands,  and  the  Lydia 
Maitland,  breaker  of  locks,  sender  of  anonymous  letters, 
inflamed  with  vengeance  to  the  point  of  rascality,  no 
dramatic  revolution  of  character  had  been  enacted.  The 
logical  passing  of  days  had  been  sufficient. 

The  occasion  to  satisfy  this  deep  and  mortal  envy, 
in  striking  Lincoln  in  some  really  vulnerable  spot, 
had  been  vainly  sought  by  Lydia  before  Mme.  Steno 
became  enamoured  with  the  painter.  She  had  been  re- 
duced to  those  petty  animosities  belonging  to  women, 
to  so  manage  as  though  through  thoughtlessness  that 
her  husband  should  read  all  the  disagreeable  articles 
written  on  his  pictures,  praising,  as  though  ingenuouslj^ 
all  his  rivals  who  put  him  any  way  in  the  shade,  repeat- 
ing to  him  with  a  blundering  air  the  smallest  adverse 
criticisms  on  one  of  his  exhibitions — all  these  miseries 
irritated  Florent  more  than  Maitland,  for  he  was  one  of 
those  art  workmen  too  engrossed  in  his  art  for  the  judg- 
ment of  others  to  aifect  him  very  much.  Besides,  before 
this  thunderbolt  of  passion  with  which  he  had  been 
struck  for  the  Dogaressa  he  had  never  loved.  A  great 
many  painters  are  like  this,  satisfying  with  magnificent 
models  an  impetuosity  of  temperament  which  never  sets 
their  hearts  throbbing.  Accustomed  to  look  at  the  hu- 
man body  under  a  particular  angle,  they  find  in  a  beauty 
Avhich  seems  simply  animal  to  us,  the  principles  of  a 
plastic  emotion  which  often  satisfies  their  amorous  ne- 
cessities. They  are  in  consequence  more  deeply  touched 
when  to  this  somewhat  gross  intoxication  is  joined,  in 
the  woman  who  inspires  it,  the  refining  graces  of 
mind,  the  pretty  delicacies  of  elegance,  and  the  subtili- 
ties  of  sentiment.     This  was  the  case  with  Mme.  Steno 


204  COSMOPOLIS. 

who  at  once  inspired  the  painter  with  a  passion  as  com- 
plete as  that  of  a  first  young  love.    It  was  really  one.   The 
Countess,  who  had  the  genius  of  the  voluptuary,  was  not 
mistaken  about  it.    Lydia  herself,  who  had  the  genius 
of  hatred,  was  not  mistaken  either.     She  knew  what  the 
end  would  be  from  the  very  first  day,  in  the  first  place, 
because  she  was  as  observant  as  dissimulating,  and  then, 
thanks  to  the  employment  of  means  less  hypothetical 
than  divination.     She  had  always  made  use  of  these 
ways  of  miserable  searches  which  are  natural,  dare  we 
say  it,  to  nine  women  out  of  ten.    And  how  many  men 
are  women  also  on  this  point,  as  the  fable  writer  saj'^s  ? 
At   the  boarding-school  Lydia  was  one  of  those  little 
girls  who  stole  up  into  the  dormitory,  or  who  entered  the 
study-hall  to  ransack  the  drawers  and  open  trunks  of 
their  companions.     When  grown,  a  sealed  letter  never 
passed  through  her  hands  that  she  did  not  try  to  read 
through  the  envelope,  or  at  least  to  guess  by  the  stamp, 
the  seal,  the  writing,  the  address,  who  was  the  author. 
This  instinctive  curiosity  was  so  great  that  she  could  not 
help  herself  looking  over  the  shoulders  of  those  who 
stood  in  front  of  her  at  a  telegraph  window  to  try  and 
read  the  contents  of  their  despatches.     She  never  made 
her  toilette  that  she  did  not  question  her  maid  minutely 
upon  what  was  going  on  in  the  office  or  the  ante-room. 
It  was  through  this  means  that  she  learned  of  the  alter- 
cation between   Florent   and   Gorka  in  the    vestibule, 
which  proves,  between  you  and  me,  that  this  manner  of 
spying,  by  means  of  our  servants,  is  oftentimes  effica- 
cious.    But  it  betrays,  in  a  character,  a  natural  baseness 
which  would  recoil  in  a  crisis  before  no  villan3\     When 
Lydia  Maitland  suspected    the   liaison  between    Mme. 
Steno  and  her  husband,  she  no  more  hesitated  to  open 
the  latter's  secretary  than  later  she  hesitated  to  open 
that  of  her  brother.     The  correspondence  she  read  by 
this  means  was  of  a  nature  to  exasperate  her  desire  for 
vengeance  to  a  perfect  fury.     For  not  only  did  she  ac- 
quire the  evidence  of  a  shared  happiness  which  humili- 


A    FIRST   COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  205 

ated  her  the  sterile  woman  in  everything",  a  stranger  to 
voluptuousness  as  to  maternity,  but  she  gathered  a 
multiplicity  of  proofs  that  the  Countess  entertained  for 
her  all  the  contempt  for  her  race  as  absolute  as  though 
Venice  had  been  a  city  in  the  United  States.  This  city 
at  the  head  of  the  Adriatic  abounds  in  race  prejudices, 
as  do  all  sea-coast  cities  which  have  served  as  a  conflu- 
ence for  the  mingling  of  too  many  races.  To  be  con- 
vinced one  need  only  hear  a  Venetian  speak  of  the 
Slavs  of  Cziavoni  and  the  Levantines  of  Gregugni. 

Mme.  Steno,  in  the  letters  which  she  wrote  as  she 
talked,  without  the  least  surveillance  over  her  pen,  with 
all  the  endearments  and  all  the  liberties  of  passion,  never 
called  Lydia  anything  but  the  Morettina,  and  by  a  very 
natural  illogicalness  the  name  of  the  brother  of  this 
Morettina  was  never  mentioned  except  by  an  endearing 
term.  For  the  mistress  to  treat  Florent  in  this  manner, 
it  must  be  seen  that  she  apprehended  no  hostility  on 
the  part  of  the  brother-in-law  of  her  lover.  Lydia  un- 
derstood this  perfectly,  and  what  a  new  sign  this  was  of 
the  sentiments  Florent  bore  to  Lincoln.  Once  more  he 
gave  precedence  to  the  friend  over  the  sister,  and  on 
what  an  occasion  !  Thus  the  most  secret  wounds  of  her 
innermost  being  bled  while  reading  the  letter.  Alba's 
portrait,  which  promised  to  be  a  clief-d'oeuvre,  ended 
by  precipitating  an  abominably  ferocious  action.  She 
made  up  her  mind  to  denounce  Mme.  Steno's  new  love 
affair  to  the  betrayed  lover,  and  had  written  the  twelve 
letters  craftily  calculatsd  and  graduated  which  had  in 
effect  determined  Gorka's  return.  This  return  had  been 
delayed  too  long  to  the  taste  of  this  first  cousin  of  lago, 
and  she  had  decided  to  cut  Mme.  Steno,  through  Alba, 
by  a  more  criminal  denunciation.  By  what  name  can 
be  branded  this  anonymous  letter,  which  was  sent  to  a 
daughter  to  reveal  to  her  a  beloved  mother's  doub'e  in- 
trigue. But  Lydia  was  in  one  of  her  speiis  of  exasper- 
ated wickedness,  in  which  the  vilest  weapons  appeared 
the  best,  and  she  enveloped  the  innocent  Alba  in  her  ha- 


206  COSMOPOLIS. 

tred  for  Maitland,  on  account  of  the  portrait.  Ah !  what 
bitter  pleasure  the  simultaneous  success  of  this  double 
infamy  had  procured  for  her !  What  savage  joy,  inter- 
mingled with  bitterness  and  ecstasy  which  is  the  satis- 
faction of  our  mortal  bitterness,  had  been  hers  the  day 
before  in  thinking  of  Alba's  enervation  and  Boleslas's 
unrestrained  anger !  In  her  imagination  she  had  seen 
Maitland  provoked  by  this  rival,  whom  she  knew  to  be  an 
expert  in  all  sports,  and  equally  skilful  with  the  sword 
as  with  the  pistol.  She  would  not  be  the  little  grand- 
daughter of  a  Louisiana  slave  did  she  not  have  combined 
with  the  natural  energy  of  her  hatreds  a  considerable  dose 
of  superstition.  A  fortune-teller  had  told  her  once,  by 
the  lines  of  her  hand,  that  she  would  cause  the  violent 
death  of  some  one.  "  It  will  be  he,"  she  had  thought, 
looking  at  her  husband  with  a  horrible  shiver  of  hope. 
And  now  she  held  the  proof — the  indisputable  proof — 
that  this  work  of  vengeance  ended  in  danger  to  another, 
and  to  what  other !  These  letters  and  Florent's  will 
showed  her  the  fatal  menace  of  a  duel  hanging  over  the 
head  which  was  dearest  to  her  in  all  the  world.  This  was 
how  she  had  led  into  a  tragic  meeting  the  only  being 
whom  she  had  ever  loved!  The  deception  of  this  heart, 
in  which  palpitated  the  fierce  energies  of  a  bestial  atav- 
ism, was  so  sudden,  so  vivid,  so  doleful,  that  she  gave 
vent  to  inarticulate  cries,  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
brother's  desk,  those  revealing  sheets  spread  out  before 
her,  and  she  repeated  over  and  over  again  : 

"He  is  going  to  fight!  Oh!  And  I  am  the  cause 
of  it ! "  Then  putting  the  letters  and  the  will  into  the 
drawer,  she  closed  it,  and  rising,  said  in  a  loud  voice : 
"  No.  That  shall  not  be.  I  will  prevent  it,  even  if  I 
must  go  and  throw  myself  between  them.  I  will  not 
have  it !    I  will  not  have  it ! " 

It  was  easy  to  speak  these  words.  Putting  them  into 
execution  was  more  difficult.  Lydia  felt  this  to  be  so, 
for  she  had  no  sooner  uttered  them  than  she  wrung  her 
hands  in  despair — ^these  frail  hands  which  Mme.  Steno 


A    FIRST   COUSIN   TO   I  AGO.  207 

had  compared  in  one  of  her  notes  to  a  monkey's  hands, 
so  supple  were  the  fingers,  as  if  disjointed,  and  a  little 
too  long — and  she  cast  this  despairing  appeal  to  the 
impossible,  this  "  But  how  ?  "  which  so  many  criminals 
have  uttered  before  the  unexpected  and  fatal  issue  for 
them  of  their  most  exact  calculations.  The  poet  has 
said  in  verses  which  tell  the  story  of  our  lightest  and 
gravest  faults  : 

"The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us.     .     .     ." 

This  belief  in  the  equity  of  an  incomprehensible 
judge  must  be  well  anchored  in  us,  for  the  strongest 
souls  are  struck  with  a  sinister  apprehension  when  they 
are  obliged  to  brave  the  chance  of  a  well-merited  punish- 
ment. The  remembrance  of  the  fortune-teller's  predic- 
tion presented  itself  all  at  once  to  Lydia.  She  uttered 
another  cry,  as  she  struck  her  hands  together,  with  the 
gesture  of  a  somnambulist.  This  time  she  saw  her 
brother's  blood.  "  No  !  This  duel  must  not  take  place  ! 
But  how  to  prevent  it  ?  How  ?  How  ? "  she  repeated. 
Florent  was  not  there.  She  could  not  then  implore  of 
him  to  give  it  up.  When  he  came  back  would  there 
still  be  time  ?  Lincoln  was  not  at  home.  Where  was 
he  to  be  found  ?  Perhaps  keeping  an  appointment 
with  Mme.  Steno.  The  picture  of  this  adorable  creature 
of  love,  swooning  in  the  painter's  arms,  overcome,  lost 
in  the  intoxication  which  her  letters  so  openly  de- 
scribed, presented  itself  to  the  envious  woman's  mind. 
AVliat  irony  to  see  them  thus,  as  in  a  flash,  those  two 
lovers  whom  she  had  wished  to  crush,  with  the  ecstasy 
of  felicity  in  their  eyes !  Lydia  yearned  to  tear  out 
their  eyes,  his  as  well  as  hers,  and  crush  the  globes  un- 
der her  heels.  A  new  flush  of  hatred  tortured  her  heart. 
God !  How  she  hated  them  both,  and  how  helpless  her 
hatred  was !  But  she  would  find  her  time  once  more. 
Another  duty  pressed  now:  to  prevent  the  meeting 
of  the  next  day  and  to  save  her  brother.     To  whom 


208  COSMOPOLIS. 

should  she  turn  ?  To  Dorsenne  ?  To  Montfanon  ?  To 
Baron  Hafner  ?  To  Peppino  Ardea  ?  She  thoug-ht  of 
all  four  of  them,  whose  almost  simultaneous  visits  led 
her  to  believe  that  they  were  the  two  champions'  seconds. 
She  rejected  them,  one  after  another,  understanding 
intuitively  that  none  of  them  possessed  sufficient  au- 
thority to  arrange  this  affair.  Her  thoughts  finally 
fixed  themselves  upon  Florent's  adversary,  upon  Boles- 
las  Gorka,  whose  wife  was  her  friend,  and  whom  she 
had  always  found  so  courteous.  If  she  went  to  him  and 
begged  him  to  spare  her  brother?  It  was  not  Florent 
whom  the  dismissed  lover  wanted.  Would  he  not  let 
himself  be  touched  by  her  tears  ?  Would  he  not  tell 
her  what  had  been  the  motive  of  the  quarrel  and  what 
steps  she  should  ask  her  brother  to  take,  so  that  this 
quarrel  should  be  appeased  ?  If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  might  she  not  obtain  from  him  a  promise  to  dis- 
charge his  pistol  in  the  air,  if  the  duel  was  to  be  fought 
with  pistols,  or  if  it  was  to  be  with  swords,  to  simply 
disarm  his  enemy  ?  In  this  she  was  like  the  rest  of  peo- 
ple who  were  ignorant  of  all  the  rules  of  duelling ;  she 
only  remembered  what  she  had  heard  of  skilled  swords- 
men, of  marksmen  who  never  missed  their  aim,  and  she 
had,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  the  profoundly,  absolutely 
false  ideas  on  the  relations  of  one  man  to  another  when 
it  was  a  question  of  an  insult.  But  how  can  women 
be  expected  to  admit  this  inflexible  rigor  in  certain 
cases,  which  is  the  basis  of  manly  relations,  when  they 
themselves  never  meet  with  a  similar  rigor,  neither  in 
their  discussions  with  men  nor  in  their  discussions 
among  themselves  ?  Accustomed  always  to  call  the  help 
of  conventionality  to  instinct,  and  reason  to  sentiment, 
they  are  face  to  face  with  the  different  codes,  whether 
they  be  that  of  justice  or  that  of  honor,  in  a  condition  of 
incomprehension  Avhich  is  worse  than  ignorance.  A 
duel,  for  example,  seems  to  them  like  an  arbitrary  drama, 
which  can  be  changed  according  to  the  will  of  one  of 
the  combatants.     There  is  probably  no  phrase  so  excep- 


A   FIRST   COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  209' 

tional  in  the  theatrical  A'ocabulary  than  the  famous 
"  A  present,  va  te  battre !  "  of  Angier's  heroine.  Before 
such  a  prospect  one  woman  in  a  hundred  would  per- 
haps utter  this  phrase,  with  the  vain  hope  of  not  being 
listened  to.  The  ninety-nine  others  would  have  the 
same  ideas  which  Lydia  Maitland  had,  that  of  run- 
ning to  the  adversary  of  their  loved  one  and  implor- 
ing him  to  spare  his  life.  But  let  us  quickly  add  that 
the  majority  of  them  would  never  put  this  step  into 
execution.  They  would  merely  hide  a  blessed  medal 
in  their  beloved  one's  vest,  whilst  their  tears  would  flow 
copiously,  recommending  him  to  the  care  of  providence, 
which  for  them  is  the  favoritism  of  Heaven.  Lydia  felt 
that  if  Florent  ever  learned  of  this  step,  of  her  idea  of 
going  to  Gorka,  that  he  would  be  wild  with  indignation. 
But  who  would  tell  him  of  it  ?  She  was  seized  by  one 
of  those  fevers  of  fright  and  remorse  which  are  too 
sharp  not  to  make  us  act,  cost  what  it  might.  Her  car- 
riage had  just  been  announced,  and  as  the  footman 
closed  the  door,  she  gave  him  the  Palazzeto  Doria, 
Gorka's  address.  In  what  terms  should  she  approach 
this  man,  to  whom  she  was  about  to  make  this  auda- 
cious and  foolish  visit  ?  Ah !  What  mattered  it ! 
Circumstances  would  inspire  her.  Her  will  to  cut  this 
duel  short  was  so  strong  that  she  had  no  doubt  about 
her  success.  It  was  a  severe  blow  to  her  when  the 
liveried  servant  told  her  that  the  Count  had  gone  out, 
whilst  at  the  same  moment  a  voice  hailed  her  with  a  gay 
laugh.  It  was  Countess  Maud  Gorka,  who,  returning 
from  a  walk  with  her  little  son,  recognized  Lydia's 
coupe,  and  said  to  her : 

"  Wliat  a  good  idea  of  mine  it  was  to  return  a  little 
sooner  than  I  had  intended !  I  see  you  feared  the 
storm,  as  we  did,  so  you  have  come  out  in  a  closed  car- 
riage. You  will  come  in  for  a  moment  1 "  And  perceiv- 
ing that  the  young  woman,  whose  hand  she  had  taken, 
was  trembling  violently,  she  continued  :  "  But  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?    You  seem  to  be  suffering.    Do 


210  COSMOPOLIS. 

you  not  feel  well  ?  Heavens  !  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  She  is  ill.  .  .  Luke,"  added  she,  addressing  her 
son,  "  run  to  my  room  and  bring  me  down  that  large 
bottle  of  English  salts.  Rose  knows  what  I  mean. 
Quickly.    Go  quickly ! " 

"  It  is  nothing,"  replied  Lydia,  who  had  closed  her 
eyes,  as  if  about  to  faint.  "  See,  I  am  better  al- 
ready. ...  I  think  I  will  return  home  ;  it  would  be 
wiser." 

*'  I  will  not  leave  you,"  said  Maud,  taking  a  seat  in 
the  carriage,  and  as  they  handed  her  the  bottle  of 
salts,  she  made  Lydia  inhale  it,  talking  to  her  all  the 
time,  as  you  would  to  a  sick  child  :  "  Poor  little  one. 
How  your  cheeks  are  burning !  And  you  were  going  to 
make  visits  in  such  a  condition.  .  .  .  That  was  very 
foolish  !  .  .  .  Via  Leopardi,"  she  said  to  the  coach- 
man, and  "  quickly !  " 

The  carriage  started  and  Mme.  Gorka  continued  to 
stroke  Lydia's  hands,  to  whom  she  gave  the  loving 
name  of :  '*  Poor  little  one ! "  such  an  irony  under 
the  circumstances.  Maud  was  one  of  those  women 
whom  England  produces  so  often  (to  the  honor  of  that 
healthy  and  highly  cultivated  Britain),  who  are  at  once 
all  energy  and  goodness.  As  large  and  robust  as  Lydia 
was  delicate  and  almost  sickly,  she  would  have  carried 
her  in  her  vigorous  arms  to  her  own  bed,  rather  than 
have  abandoned  her  in  the  troubled  condition  in  which 
she  found  her.  No  less  practical,  and,  as  her  country- 
women say,  as  matter-of-fact  as  she  was  charitable,  she 
commenced  to  question  her  patient  on  the  symptoms 
which  had  preceded  the  crisis,  when  all  at  once  she 
saw  with  surprise  the  changed  face  contract,  tears  gush 
from  the  eyes,  which  but  a  moment  ago  were  closed,  and 
the  fragile  body  convulsed  with  sobs.  Lydia  had  a  real 
hysterical  attack,  brought  about  by  the  anxiety,  the  dis- 
appointment which  Boleslas's  absence  caused  her,  and 
no  doubt  also  by  the  kindness  with  which  Maud  had 


A   FIRST  COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  211 

spoken  to  her.  Tearing-  her  handkerchief  with  her 
teeth,  she  gasped  forth  : 

"  No,  I  am  not  ill.  .  .  .  But  I  cannot  stand  this 
trouble.  .  .  .  No,  I  cannot.  .  .  .  Ah !  I  am  going 
crazy !  .  .  ."  And  turning  to  her  companion,  she 
jiressed  her  hand  in  her  turn  and  said  to  her :  "  But 
yoii  know  nothing  ?  You  have  suspected  nothing  ? 
.  .  .  This  is  what  startles  me,  when  I  see  you  tran- 
quil, calm,  happy,  as  if  the  minutes  did  not  count  triple 
and  quadruple,  to-day,  for  you  as  for  me.  .  .  .  For  in 
fact,  if  one  is  my  brother,  the  other  is  your  husband. 
.  .  .  And  you  love  him.  You  must  indeed  love  him,  to 
have  forgiven  him  what  you  have.     .     .     ." 

She  had  spoken  in  a  sort  of  intoxication,  carried 
away  by  the  overexcited  condition  of  her  nerves;  and 
she  had  spoken,  she  so  usually  dissimulating,  the  very 
depth  of  her  thoughts.  She  never  dreamt  she  was  tell- 
ing Mme.  Oorka  anything  new,  in  this  direct  allusion 
to  Boleslas's  liaison  with  Mme.  Steno.  She  was  per- 
suaded, as  in  fact  all  Home  had  been,  that  Maud  knew 
all  about  her  husband's  infidelities,  and  that  she  was 
sustained  by  one  of  those  heroic  sacrifices,  justified  by 
maternity.  How  many  women  immolate  their  wifely 
pride  to  maintain  a  hearthstone,  when  the  father  would 
at  least  not  desert  it  ofticially !  All  Rome  was  mistaken, 
and  Lydia  Maitland  was  to  experience  an  altogether 
unexpected  surprise.  The  slightest  suspicion  that  such 
an  intrigue  could  unite  her  husband  and  the  mother  of 
her  best  friend,  had  never  entered  the  thoughts  of 
Boleslas's  wife.  But  to  understand  all  this  better  we 
should  admit,  and  understand  also,  the  depth  of  inno- 
cence which  this  beautiful  and  healthy  English  woman, 
with  her  candid  clear  eyes,  had  retained,  notwithstand- 
ing her  six  and  twenty  years  of  life.  She  was  one  of 
those  very  honest  people  who  command  respect  from 
men,  and  before  whom  the  most  dissolute  women  would 
be  most  careful  of  their  conduct.  She  had  never  re- 
ceived those  confidences  which,  by  analogy,  light  up 


212  COSMOPOLIS. 

the  ill-conditioned  backgrounds  of  so  many,  otherwise 
correct  lives.  She  had  been  able  to  live  in  Mme. 
Steuo's  very  liberal  suiToundings  without  losing  the 
flower  of  illusion,  an  anomaly  which  was  greatly  due  to 
the  special  nature  of  her  intelligence.  She  had  no 
taste  but  for  acquaintances  and  conversations  of  perfect 
propriety.  She  was  very  well-educated,  but  totally 
devoid  of  curiosity  about  other  characters.  Dorsenne 
had  said  of  her,  more  justly  than  he  thought:  "Mme. 
Gorka  has  married  a  man  to  whom  she  has  never  been 
introduced !  " — meaning  by  that,  that  contrary  to  cur- 
rent opinion,  she  had  no  idea  of  the  character  of  her 
husband  in  the  first  place,  and,  consequently,  of  the 
treachery  of  which  she  was  the  victim.  The  novelist, 
however,  was  not  altogether  correct.  Boleslas's  insin- 
cerity was  too  constant  for  a  creature  so  passionately, 
so  religiously  loyal,  as  was  his  wife,  not  to  suffer.  But 
there  is  a  great  gulf  between  such  sufferings  and  the  in- 
tuition of  a  determined  fact  such  as  Lydia  had  called 
foi-th,  and  such  a  suspicion  was  so  far  from  Maud's 
mind,  that  her  companion's  phrases  awakened  in  her 
but  the  startled  astonishment  before  a  mysterious 
danger,  of  which  Lydia's  anguish  was  a  more  eloquent 
proof  than  her  words. 

"Tour  brother?  My  husband?"  said  she.  "I  do 
not  understand  you  !  " 

"  Naturally,"  replied  Lydia.  *'  He  has  hidden  it  from 
you,  as  Florent  has  hidden  everything  from  me.  Well ! 
They  are  going  to  fight  a  duel  with  each  other,  and  to- 
morrow morning.  .  .  .  Do  not  tremble,"  she  contin- 
ued as  she  clasped  Maud  Gorka  in  her  arms.  "  We  will 
be  two,  to  prevent  this  horrible  thing,  and  we  will  pre- 
vent it." 

"  A  duel !  To-morrow  morning  ? "  repeated  Maud,  in 
a  startled  voice  ;  "  Boleslas  fight  a  duel,  to-morrow,  with 
your  brother  ?  No ;  that  is  impossible.  Who  told  you 
so  ?    How  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

*'  I  have  seen  the  proof  with  my  eyes,"  replied  Lydia. 


A  FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  213 

"I  have  read  Florent's  •will.  I  have  read  the  letters 
which  he  has  prepared  for  Maitland  and  for  me,  in  case 
of  a  fatal  issue.  But  would  I  be  in  the  condition  in 
which  you  see  me,  if  it  were  not  true  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  believe  you,"  cried  Maud,  pressing  her  fin- 
gers against  her  eyelids,  as  though  to  check,  to  shut 
out  a  sinister  vision.  "  But  where  did  they  see  each 
other  ?  Boleslas  has  been  here  hardly  two  days.  What 
is  there  between  them  ?  What  did  they  say  to  each 
other  ?  A  man  does  not  risk  his  life,  however,  for  noth- 
ing, when  he  has,  as  Boleslas  has,  a  wdfe  and  a  son? 
.  .  .  Answer  me,  I  beg  of  you.  Tell  me  all.  I  want 
to  know  all.    What  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  duel  ?  " 

"  And  what  would  you  have,  if  it  was  not  that 
woman  ?  "  cried  Lydia,  who  put  as  much  savage  con- 
tempt in  these  last  words,  as  if  she  had  publicly 
slapped  Caterina  Steno's  face.  But  this  new  access  of 
anger  fell  before  the  surprise  which  her  reply  caused 
Mme.  Gorka. 

"What  woman?  I  understand  you  less  now  than  I 
did  before." 

"  When  we  are  home,  I  will  talk  to  you,"  replied 
Lydia,  who  had  gazed  at  the  other  with  a  look  of  such 
stupefaction,  that  it  was  the  most  terrible  commentary 
on  the  one  who  felt  herself  thus  looked  at.  The  reply 
was  justified  by  the  fact  that  the  coupe  was  then  turn- 
ing into  the  Yia  Leopardi.  The  two  women  were 
silent.  Maud,  now  herself,  stood  in  need  of  a  friendly 
interest,  so  upset  was  she  by  Lydia's  words.  This  com- 
panion, whose  arm  touched  hers  by  the  rapid  motion  of 
the  carriage,  and  for  whom  she  had  felt  such  pity  but  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before,  now  inspired  her  with  fear. 
She  seemed  to  be  an  altogether  different  person.  In 
this  creature,  whose  thin  nostrils  were  palpitating  with 
passion,  whose  mouth  was  pinched  into  a  bitter  sneer, 
whose  eyes  si^arkled  with  anger — she  no  longer  recog- 
nized the  petite  Mme.  Maitland,  so  taciturn,  so  re- 
served that  she  passed  for  insignificant.    What  was 


214  COSMOPOLIS. 

this  usually  musical  voice,  so  harsh  for  the  past  few  mo- 
ments, and  which  had  already  revealed  the  great  danger 
which  hung  over  Boleslas,  about  to  tell  her  now  I 
Lydia  herself  commenced  to  understand  the  awful  sor- 
row into  which  she  had  thrown  Maud,  without  the 
slightest  premeditation,  and  with  the  most  absolute 
unconsciousness.  For  one  moment,  it  seemed  to  her, 
that  to  say  anything  more  to  a  woman  so  evidently 
blinded,  would  be  a  new  crime.  But  she  saw,  at  the 
same  time,  in  a  complete  revelation,  two  results.  In 
disillusioning  Mme.  Gorka,  she  would  make  a  mortal 
enemy  for  Mme.  Steno,  and  on  the  other  hand,  a  woman 
so  deeply  enamoured  of  her  husband  would  never  allow 
him  to  fight  for  an  old  mistress.  Thus,  when  they  both 
entered  the  little  salon  of  the  Moorish  hotel,  her  reso- 
lution was  taken.  She  had  decided  to  hide  nothing  of 
what  she  knew  from  the  unhappy  Maud,  who,  turning" 
to  her,  asked  her,  with  a  beating  heart  and  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion  : 

"  And  now  will  you  explain  to  me  what  you  wished 
to  tell  me  ?     .     .     .     " 

"  Question  me,"  said  the  other.  "  I  will  reply  to  you. 
I  have  gone  too  far  to  hold  back." 

"  You  have  pretended  that  a  woman  is  the  cause  of 
this  duel  between  your  brother  and  my  husband." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  replied  Lydia. 

"  And  this  woman — what  is  her  name  I " 

*'  Mme.  Steno,"  said  Lydia. 

"  Mme.  Steno  ?  "  repeated  Maud.  "  Catherine  Steno 
is  the  cause  of  this  duel  ?     And  how  ?  " 

"Because  she  is  my  husband's  mistress,"  replied 
Lydia,  brutally,  "  as  she  has  been  the  mistress  of  yours, 
and  because  Gorka  came  here,  mad  with  jealousy,  to 
provoke  Lincoln,  and  that  he  quarrelled  with  my 
brother,  who  prevented  him  from  entering.  They  quar- 
relled, I  do  not  know  for  what  cause.  But  I  do  know  that 
here  is  the  motive  for  the  duel.  Am  I  right — yes  or  no — 
in  telling  j'^ou  that  they  are  fighting  for  this  woman  ?  " 


A   FIRST  COUSIN  TO  lAGO.  215 

"  My  husband's  mistress  ?  .  .  ,"  cried  Maud. 
"  You  say  that  Mme.  Steno  has  been  my  husband's  mis- 
tress ?  .  .  .  No,  it  is  not  true.  You  lie !  You  lie ! 
You  lie !    I  do  not  believe  you ! " 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ? "  said  Lydia,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "  As  though  I  had  the  slightest  interest  in 
deceiving  you ;  as  though  one  would  lie  when  it  is  a 
question  of  the  life  of  the  only  being  whom  one  loves 
upon  earth !  I  have  only  my  brother,  and  to-morrow, 
perhaps,  I  will  not  have  him  any  longer.  .  .  .  But 
you  do  believe  me.  I  want  us  to  be  two  in  hating 
this  jade,  two  in  revenging  ourselves  upon  her,  as  we 
are  two  in  not  wishing  this  duel  to  take  place,  of  which 
I  repeat  to  you,  she  is  the  cause  and  the  only  cause. 
.  .  .  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  And  do  you  know  who 
brought  your  husband  back  1  For  you  did  not  expect 
him — confess  it  ?  ...  It  was  I,  do  you  hear  me  ? 
It  was  I,  in  writing  to  him,  what  the  Steno  and  Lincoln 
did  day  by  day,  of  their  love,  and  their  appointments 
and  their  happiness.  .  .  .  Ah  !  I  was  certain  that  I 
was  not  flinging  my  words  into  empty  space,  and  he 
came  back.  He  has  crossed  Europe  to  revenge  himself. 
.     .     .     Is  this  a  proof  ?  " 

"  You  did  not  do  that  ?  "  cried  Mme.  Gorka,  recoiling 
in  horror.     "  That  is  too  great  an  infamy." 

"  Yes,  I  did  that,"  replied  Lydia,  with  a  fierce  pride, 
"  and  why  not  ?  It  was  my  right,  when  she  came  and 
took  my  husband  from  me.  All  you  have  to  do,  is  to  go 
home  and  look  through  the  place  where  Gorka  keeps  his 
letters.  You  will  find  many  there  of  this  woman's. 
For  the  fool  has  a  mania  for  writing.  .  .  .  Will  you 
believe  me,  then,  or  will  you  tell  me  again  that  I  lie  ? " 

"  Never,"  said  Maud,  with  a  sorrowful  indignation 
overspreading  her  loyal  face ;  *'  no,  never  will  I  stoop  to 
such  baseness." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  stoop  to  it  for  you,"  cried  Lydia. 
**  What  you  dare  not  do,  I  will  dare,  and  you  will  yet  ask 
me  to  assist  you  in  revenging  yourself.     Come    .    .    ." 


216  COSMOPOLIS. 

and  taking-  the  other's  hand,  who,  too  stupefied  to  resist, 
allowed  herself  to  be  drag-g-ed  into  Lincoln's  studio, 
which  was  empty  at  that  moment,  she  approached  one 
of  those  pieces  of  furniture  in  Spanish  style,  with  Ai-a- 
bian  coloring,  which  are  called  "  bargenos,"  and  she  let 
down  the  purple  and  gold  leaf,  then,  touching  a  secret 
spring,  she  disclosed  a  hidden  drawer  in  which  was 
found  a  package  of  letters,  which  she  seized  upon.  Maud 
Gorka  gazed  at  her  performing  this  work  of  Judas,  with 
the  same  startled  hoiTor  with  which  she  would  have 
watched  anyone  committing  murder  or  stealing.  Every 
feeling  in  this  upright  soul  revolted  against  this  scene, 
in  which  she  felt  that  her  presence  alone  made  her 
half  an  accomplice.  But  at  the  same  time  she  was  the 
prey,  as  her  husband  had  been  a  few  days  before,  of  that 
frantic  desire  to  know  the  truth,  which  becomes,  in  cer- 
tain keen  crises  of  doubt,  a  physical  need,  like  a  ciy 
of  our  sentimental  nature,  as  injurious  as  hunger  or 
thirst,  and  she  listened  to  Florent's  terrible  sister  speak- 
ing: 

"  Would  it  be  a  proof  for  you  to  see  something  writ- 
ten by  her  own  hand  ? "  "  Yes,"  she  continued  with 
cruel  irony.  "  She  loves  to  write,  does  our  happy  rival. 
We  must  do  her  the  justice  to  say  that  she  is  not  spar- 
ing of  her  vows,  in  her  letters.  She  writes  as  she  feels. 
.  .  .  It  seems  that  the  successor  was  jealous  of  the 
predecessor.  .  .  .  Come,  is  this  proof  enough 
this  time  ? "  And  after  having  turned  over  the  letters 
like  a  person  accustomed  to  such  correspondence,  she 
held  out  one  of  the  papers  to  Maud,  who  had  not  the 
courage  to  take  her  eyes  from  it.  What  she  saw  written 
on  that  page  drew  a  cry  of  agony  from  her.  She  had 
only  read  ten  lines,  however,  which  proved  how  wrong 
Dorsenne,  psychologist  as  he  was,  had  been  in  believ- 
ing that  Maitland  was  ignorant  of  his  mistress's  former 
relations  with  Gorka.  The  Countess  Steno's  gi-eatness, 
and  what  made  her  a  courageous  woman,  in  her  passions, 
to  the  verge  of  heroism,  was  an  absolute  sincerity  and 


A   FIIIST   COUSIN   TO   lAGO.  217 

a  disgust  for  the  usual  pettiness  of  gallantry.  She 
would  have  disdained  to  dispute,  step  after  step,  lie  after 
lie,  with  a  new  lover,  the  knowledge  of  her  past,  and  the 
half  avowals,  so  usual  to  the  feminine  race,  would  have 
seemed  to  her  more  cowardly  still.  She  had  not  tried 
to  hide  from  Maitland,  what  liaison  she  was  breaking 
for  him,  and  it  was  one  of  these  sentences  in  which  she 
spoke  openly  of  it,  which  had  fallen  under  Mme.  Gorka's 
eyes:  "Thou  shouldst  be  content  with  me,"  she  had 
written,  "  and  I  will  no  longer  see  in  thy  dear  blue  eyes, 
which  I  have  so  often  kissed,  as  I  love  them,  in  our 
own  fashion,  that  defiant  light,  by  which  thou  hast 
pained  me.  I  have  even  ceased  to  correspond  with 
G.  .  .  .  If  thou  dost  still  insist,  I  will  go  so  far  as  to 
quarrel  with  Maud,  notwithstanding  the  reason,  which 
thou  knowest,  and  which  will  render  it  difficult  for  me 
to  do  so.  But  why  should  thou  still  be  jealous  ?  .  .  . 
My  breaking  this  liaison,  is  it  not  indeed  the  surest 
guarantee  that  it  is  indeed  ended  ?  Come,  thou  must 
not  be  jealous.  Wilt  thou  never  learn,  what  I  now  know 
so  well,  that  I  thought  I  knew  how  to  love,  but  that  my 
life  only  commenced  the  day  in  which  thou  didst  take 
me  in  thine  arms.  The  woman  thou  hast  awakened  in 
me,  no  other  man  has  ever  known." 

"  She  writes  well,  does  she  not  ?  "  asked  Lydia,  with 
the  sparkle  of  a  savage  triumph  in  her  eyes.  "  Will  you 
believe  me  now  ?  Do  you  understand  that  we  have  but 
one  interest  in  common  to-day  ?  A  common  insult  to 
avenge  ?  And  we  will  avenge  it.  Do  you  understand, 
also,  that  you  cannot  allow  your  husband  to  fight  with 
my  brother  ?  You  owe  this  to  me,  as  I  have  given  you 
the  weapon  to  hold  over  him.  Threaten  him  with  a  di- 
vorce. Fortune  favors  you.  They  will  let  you  keep  the 
child.  I  repeat  that  you  have  him  completely  in  your 
power.  But  you  will  prevent  the  duel,  you  will  promise 
me.     .     .     ." 

**  Ah !  what  difference  does  it  make  to  me  now,  whether 
they  fight  or  not  ?  "  said  Maud.     "  Since  he  has  betrayed 


218  COSMOPOLIS. 

me  for  so  long-  a  time,  am  I  not  already  a  widow  ?  Do 
not  come  near  me,"  she  added,  looking  at  Lydia  with 
haggard  eyes  and  a  shiver  of  repulsion  stealing  over 
her.  "  Do  not  talk  to  me  any  more.  I  have  as  much 
horror  for  you  as  for  him.  .  .  .  Let  me  go,  let  me 
g-et  away  from  here.  .  .  .  Only  to  feel  mj^self  in 
the  same  room  with  you  makes  me  ill.  All !  What 
a  shame  ! " 

She  had  moved  toward  the  door,  fixing  upon  the  de- 
nouncer glances  which  the  other  met,  notwithstanding- 
the  contempt  which  shone  forth  from  them,  with  a  look 
of  defiant  pride.  She  went  out,  still  repeating :  "  Ah  ! 
AVhat  a  shame ! " — Lydia  not  saying  a  word  to  her,  in  fact, 
the  surprise  at  an  ending  so  contrary  to  her  expectations 
had  completely  paralyzed  her.  But  the  redoubtable 
creature  did  not  permit  herself  to  be  overcome  by  re- 
g-rets  nor  repentance.  She  stood  still  a  few  moments 
thinking.  Then,  twisting  in  her  nervous  hands  the  letter 
which  she  had  shown  to  Maud,  at  the  risk  of  being  de- 
nounced herself  later  by  this  crumpled  paper,  she  said 
aloud : 

"Coward!  God,  what  a  coward  she  is!  She  loves 
him.  She  will  pardon  him.  There  will  be  no  one  then 
to  aid  me !  No  one  to  strike  them  in  their  insolent  hap- 
piness !  "  And  after  a  few  moments  of  meditation,  with 
a  face  still  more  contracted,  she  threw  the  letters  back 
into  the  drawer,  which  she  closed  again,  and  half  an 
hour  later  she  called  for  a  messenger,  to  whom  she  gave 
a  letter,  with  ordei-s  to  deliver  it  immediately,  and  this 
letter  was  addressed  to  the  Police  Inspector  of  the  Dis- 
trict. She  warned  him  of  the  next  day's  duel,  giving- 
him  the  names  of  the  two  principals  and  the  four 
seconds.  This  time  she  would  have  signed  her  own 
name,  had  she  not  been  afraid  of  her  brother. 

"I  should  have  commenced  by  doing  that  at  first," 
she  said,  when  the  door  of  her  little  salon  was  closed 
behind  her  messenger,  to  whom  she  had  delivered  her 
message  personally.    "  The  gendarmes  will  know  how  to 


THE   DUKL.  210 

prevent  this  duel,  if  my  intercession  with  Florent  should 
prove  fruitless.  As  to  him  'i  "  and  she  glanced  at  a  por- 
trait of  Maitland,  standing-  on  the  desk,  at  which  she 
had  just  written.  "If  I  tell  him  what  has  just  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  No,  I  will  ask  him  nothing.  I  hate  him 
too  much."  As  she  concluded,  a  ferocious  smile  dis- 
closed her  teeth  in  the  corners  of  her  thin  mouth,  an 
hereditary  anomaly  which  would  have  alone  bespoken 
her  black  blood.  "  It  makes  no  difference.  Maud  Gorka 
must  work  with  me,  in  spite  of  herself.  There  is  always 
one  whom  she  will  never  pardon,  and  that  is  the  Steno." 
And  notwithstanding  her  frightful  uneasiness,  this  cruel 
soul  felt  herself  tremble  with  joy  at  the  remembrance 
of  her  work. 


vni. 

THE  DUEL. 


When  Maud  Gorka  left  the  hotel  of  the  Via  Leopardi, 
she  walked  at  first  straight  before  her,  rapidly,  blindly, 
seeing  and  hearing  nothing,  like  the  animal  wounded  in 
its  lair,  that  rushes  through  the  thicket  to  flee  from  dan- 
ger, to  flee  from  its  wound,  to  flee  from  itself.  Cei-tain 
shocks  of  mental  pain  are  similar  in  their  immediate  ef- 
fect to  those  shocks  of  animal  pain.  It  is  in  either  case 
the  spring  of  life  itself  touched  to  its  quick  which 
quivers  with  an  almost  frenzied  spasm.  It  was  a  little 
after  half-past  three  when  the  wretched  woman  escaped 
from  the  studio,  unable  to  endure  the  presence  of  Lydia 
Maitland,  of  that  sinister  messenger  of  vengeance  who 
had  just  revealed  so  cruelly,  with  such  indisputable 
proofs,  the  atrocious  fact,  the  long,  the  infamous,  the 
inexpiable  treachery.  It  was  almost  six  when  she  really 
returned  to  self-consciousness.  A  very  ordinary  sensa- 
tion awaked  her  from  this  somnambulism  of  suflfering  in 
which,  for  two  hours,  she  had  walked.  The  storm, 
which  had  been  threatening  since  noonday,  suddenly 


220  COSMOPOLIS. 

burst.  Maud,  who  had  hardly  perceived  the  first 
heavy  drops,  was  forced  to  seek  shelter,  when  the 
clouds  broke  suddenly  in  a  water  spout,  and  she  found 
that  she  had  taken  refuge  in  the  right  extremity  of  the 
colonnade  of  Saint  Peter.  How  had  she  reached  there  ? 
.  .  .  She  did  not  herself  exactly  know.  She  remem- 
bered in  a  vague  way  that  she  had  wandered  in  a  net- 
work of  narrow  streets,  crossed  the  Tiber — doubtless  by 
the  Garibaldi  Bridge — passed  through  a  vast  garden, 
probablj'^  the  Janiculum,  then  that  she  had  skiiied  a 
portion  of  the  ramparts.  She  must  have  gone  out  of 
the  city  by  the  gate  of  Saint  Pancras  and  followed  even 
to  that  of  Cavallegheri  the  sinuous  line  of  the  beautiful 
Urban  walls.  This  corner  of  Rome,  with  its  vista  of 
umbrella  pines  of  the  Pamphili  Villa  on  one  side,  and 
on  the^other  the  rear  of  the  Vatican,  serves,  during  the 
winter,  as  an  habitual  promenade  to  some  of  the  cardi- 
nals who  come,  seeking  the  afternoon  sun,  sure  of  meet- 
ing only  a  small  number  of  strangers.  By  the  month 
of  May  it  is  a  desert  already  scorched  by  the  sun.  It 
gnaws  the  bricks,  burned  by  two  centuries  of  this  im- 
placable luminary,  and  it  caresses  the  scales  of  the  gray 
or  green  lizards,  gliding  swiftly  between  the  bees  on 
the  scutcheon  of  Pope  Urban  ^Hill.,  of  the  Barberini 
family.  Instinct  had  at  least  served  Mme.  Gorka  in 
casting  her  upon  a  path  where  she  had  met  no  one. 
Now,  the  sense  of  reality  was  renewed.  She  recognized 
the  surroundings  and  this  frame  so  familiar  to  her  piety 
as  a  fervent  Catholic,  the  vast  square,  the  obelisk  of 
Sixtus  V.  in  the  centre,  the  fountains,  the  circular  por- 
tico crowned  with  statues  of  bishops  and  of  martyrs, 
the  palace  of  the  Vatican  at  the  corner,  and  the  fagade 
of  the  grand  papal  cathedral,  with  the  Saviour  and  the 
apostles  standing  upon  its  august  pediment.  On  any 
other  occasion  the  pious  young  woman  would  have 
seen,  in  the  chance  which  had  conducted  her  thither,  al- 
most unconsciously,  an  influence  from  above,  an  invita- 
tion to  enter  into  the  church,  to  ask  there  for  strength 


THE  DUEL.  221 

to  endure  from  God,  who  has  said  :  "  Wliosoever  would 
follow  me,  let  him  deny  himself  and  take  up  his  cross 
and  follow  me."  But  she  was  in  that  first  poignant  crisis 
of  misfortune  where  it  is  impossible  to  pray,  so  loud 
does  the  revolt  of  nature  cry  out  within  us.  Later,  we 
shall  know  how  to  recognize  the  hand  of  Providence  in 
the  trial  imposed  upon  us.  At  first  we  see  only  the 
frightful  injustice  of  fate,  and  our  being  is  shaken  to 
its  inmost  depths,  and  the  profoundest  energies  of  the 
soul  rebel  against  the  wound  from  which  it  bleeds. 
What  rendered  this  rebellion  more  invincible  and  more 
fiery  with  Maud,  was  its  lightning  suddenness.  Every 
day,  good  women,  like  her,  acquire  proofs  of  the 
treachery  of  husbands  whom  they  have  not  ceased  to 
love.  Ordinarily,  this  indisputable  proof  is  preceded 
by  a  long  period  of  suspicion.  The  faithless  one  has 
neglected  his  fireside.  A  change  has  come  over  his 
daily  habits.  Indefinable  shadows  have  revealed  to  the 
deceived  wife  the  traces  of  a  rival,  which  feminine 
jealousy  detects  with  a  scent  as  sure  as  that  of  the  dog 
which  finds  a  stranger  in  the  house.  Finally,  though 
there  may  be  in  the  passage  from  doubt  to  certainty  a 
rending  of  the  heart,  it  is  the  rending  of  a  heart  pre- 
pared. Maud  had  been  deprived  of  this  preparation, 
this  adaptation  so  to  speak,  of  her  soul  to  the  horrible 
truth.  The  care  taken  by  Mme.  Steno  to  promote  her 
friendship  with  Alba  had  suppressed  these  small  clues. 
Boleslas  had  had  no  need  to  change  anything  in  his 
family  life  to  see  his  mistress  at  his  own  convenience  in 
an  intimacy  begun  and  kept  up  by  his  wife  herself. 
She  had  been  deceived  totally,  absolutely.  She  had 
promoted  his  ends  with  an  illusion  so  complete  that 
it  would  seem  improbable  to  the  indifferent  and  to 
strangers.  They  could  not  understand  the  insensible 
habit  which  had  produced  it.  The  most  terrible  awak- 
enings are  from  just  such  illusions.  A  man  whom  all 
his  circle  considered  so  kind  a  husband,  a  woman 
who  passed  for  an  indulgent  wife,  is  suddenly  ,f ound  to 


222  COSMOPOLIS. 

have  committed  murder  or  suicide,  to  the  great  aston- 
ishment of  the  world  which,  even  then,  hesitates  to  rec- 
ognize in  this  lit  of  insanity  a  ];)roof  that  rapid  disillusion 
has  thunderbolts  more  dreadf  al  and  more  instantaneous 
in  their  ravages  than  those  of  love.  When  this  internal 
disaster  does  not  betray  itself  to  the  outside  world  by 
such  acts  of  violence,  there  is  an  irreparable  destruction 
of  our  youthfulness  of  soul.  This  idea  is  fixed  within 
us  forever  that  all  may  betray,  since  we  have  been  be- 
trayed in  such  a  way.  It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may 
sometimes  be  for  the  rest  of  life,  this  inability  to  soften 
one's  self,  to  hope,  to  believe,  which  caused  Maud  Gorka 
to  remain  through  this  afternoon,  resting  against  the 
pedestal  of  a  column,  watching  the  rain  fall  indefinitely 
instead  of  going  toward  the  Catholic  basilica  where  con- 
fessionals in  all  tongues  offered  pardon  for  all  sins  and 
remedy  for  all  griefs.  Alas !  to  kneel  there  is  to  be  al- 
ready consoled  ;  and  this  poor  woman  was  now  only  at 
the  first  station  of  Calvary. 

She  watched  the  rain  fall  and  found  a  fierce  satis- 
faction in  this  formidable  cataract  of  storm  which 
seemed  a  cataclysm  of  nature,  so  much  did  the  glare  of 
the  lightning  and  the  noise  of  thunder  mingle  in  the 
echoes  of  the  vast  square,  under  the  whip-lash  of  the 
water  swept  by  the  wind.  Ideas  began  to  class  them- 
selves anew  in  her  mind,  after  this  whirlwind  of  blind 
pain  with  which  she  had  felt  herself  carried  away  after 
the  first  glance  over,  the  accusing  page.  Each  word 
upon  this  page  remained  before  her  eyes,  so  burning 
as  to  make  her  close  them  in  agony.  The  last  two  years 
of  her  life,  those  in  which  she  had  become  intimate  with 
the  Countess  Steno,  returned  to  her  thoughts  with  a 
clearness  which  drew  from  her  continually  words 
which  she  uttered  with  groans :  "  How  could  he  ! " 
She  again  saw  Venice  and  their  residence  in  this  city 
where  Boleslas  had  conducted  her  after  the  death  of 
their  daughter,  so  that,  in  the  tranquil  atmosphere  of 
the  lagoons,  she  might  overcome  the  sharpness  of  her 


TITK   DUEL.  223 

grief.  How  good  Mme.  Steno  had  been  at  this  period, 
at  least  how  good  and  delicate  she  had  appeared,  under- 
standing her  and  pitying  her.  Their  acquaintance  in 
Home  had  little  by  little  changed  into  friendship.  This 
had  no  doubt  been  the  beginning  of  the  treachery. 
This  thief  of  love  had  introduced  herself  under  the 
cover  of  that  pity  in  which  Maud  had  so  wholly  be- 
lieved. Seeing  the  Countess  so  generous,  she  had 
treated  as  calumnies  the  evil-speaking  of  the  world  in 
regard  to  a  person  capable  of  this  touching  kindness  of 
heart.  And  this  was  the  moment  in  which  the  false  friend 
took  Boleslas  from  her.  A  thousand  details  rose  before 
her,  which  she  had  not  then  understood.  The  trips  of 
these  two  lovers  in  a  gondola,  which  she  had  not  even 
thought  wrong; — a  visit  that  Boleslas  had  paid  at 
Piove,  and  whence  he  had  not  returned  until  the  next 
morning  under  pretext  of  a  lost  train ; — little  asides  on 
the  balcony  of  the  Steno  palace,  while  she  herself  con- 
versed with  Alba.  Yes,  it  was  at  Venice  that  their  in- 
trigue was  accomplished,  before  her,  who  had  not  so 
much  as  guessed  it,  while  her  heart  was  full  of  in- 
consolable regret  for  their  lost  angel.  "  Ah !  how 
could  he,"  she  groaned  anew  as  these  thoughts  multi- 
plied themselves.  In  her  intelligence,  as  it  were,  there 
was  a  sudden  and  tragical  opening  of  all  the  windows 
which  the  perfidy  of  Gorka  and  of  the  Countess  had 
walled  up  with  so  much  care.  She  saw  again  the 
months  which  had  followed  the  return  to  Rome,  and 
their  modes  of  life,  so  convenient  for  these  two  accom- 
plices. How  many  times  she  had  taken  upon  herself  to 
walk  out  with  Alba,  relieving  her  husband  of  her  own 
presence  and  the  mother  of  the  only  oversight  which 
was  inconvenient  to  her.  What  were  the  lovers  doing 
during  these  hours  ?  How  many  times  in  returning  to 
the  Doria  Palace  she  had  found  Catherine  Steno  in  the 
library,  seated  on  a  divan  near  Boleslas,  and  she  had  not 
suspected  that  this  woman  had  come  during  her  ab- 
sence to  speak  of  love,  and  to  give  herself  to  him,  doubt- 


224  OOSMOPOLIS. 

less,  with  the  spice  of  wickedness  and  danger.  She  re- 
membered the  episode  of  their  meeting  at  Bayreuth, 
last  summer,  when  she  had  gone  to  England,  alone  with 
her  son,  while  her  husband  had  undertaken  to  escort 
the  Countess  and  Alba  from  Borne  to  Bavaria.  They 
had  all  agreed  to  meet  in  Nuremberg.  She  remembered 
the  hotel  where,  in  adjoining  apartments,  he  had  en- 
joyed their  society  while  she  and  little  Luke  were  on 
the  train.  Again  she  cried  out,  "  Ah !  how  could  he ! 
.  .  .  ."  And  all  at  once  this  vision  of  a  rapid  train 
awakened  in  her  the  memory  of  the  recent  return  of  her 
husband ;  she  saw  him,  on  an  anonymous  charge,  trav- 
ersing Europe  to  arrive  twenty-four  hours  sooner  near 
this  woman.  What  a  proof  of  passion  was  this  frenzy 
which  did  not  permit  this  man  longer  to  endure  doubt 
and  absence.  How  he  must  have  loved  this  woman,  who 
did  not  even  love  him,  since  she  betrayed  him  for  Mait- 
land,  and  he  was  about  to  fight  for  her.  ...  At  this 
moment,  jealousy  tortured  this  wife's  heart  with  a  suf- 
fering yet  greater  than  her  indignation.  This  English- 
woman, tall,  robust,  almost  masculine  in  build,  with 
powerful  but  heavy  limbs,  compared  herself  mentally 
with  this  supple  Italian,  with  rounded  waist,  graceful 
gestures,  delicate  hands  and  slender  feet,  whose  every 
movement  breathed  a  captivating  charm,  and  she  ceased 
to  groan  out  the  "  Ah !  how  could  he !  .  .  .  "  of 
the  past  moments.  She  had  come  now  to  a  lucid  con- 
viction of  the  power  of  her  rival.  It  is  a  supreme 
agony  when  a  good  woman  who  loves  feels  herself 
sullied  even  by  the  thought  of  the  intoxication  to  which 
her  husband  has  subjected  himself.  With  her  this  was 
the  signal  of  a  return  of  will-power  over  a  tortured 
but  proud  soul.  Disgust,  violent,  profound,  and  com- 
plete, seized  her ;  disgust  for  this  atmosphere  of  false- 
hood and  luxury  where  for  two  years  Boleslas  had 
lived.  She  drew  herself  up,  suddenly  strong  and  im- 
placable. Braving  the  storm,  she  began  to  walk  home- 
ward with  this  resolution  before  her  mind,  as  plain 


THE   DUEL.  225 

and  as  strong  as  if  she  had  deliberated  over  it  months 
and  months : 

"  I  will  not  remain  one  day  longer  with  this  man. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  gone  to  England  with  my  son." 

How  many  others  in  a  similar  plight  have  uttered 
oaths  of  freedom,  and  abjured  them  so  soon  as  they 
find  themselves  in  the  presence  of  the  man  who  has 
betrayed  them  and  whom  they  yet  love!  In  spite  of 
her  passion,  Maud  was  not  of  that  race.  Certainly, 
she,  too,  loved  him  to  the  very  depths  of  her  being,  this 
fascinating  Boleslas,  whom  she  had  married  against 
the  wishes  of  her  parents,  this  perfidious  man  for 
whom  she  had  sacrificed  everything,  dwelling  far  from 
her  country  and  her  family  many  years,  because  he 
wished  it ;  living,  breathing  only  for  him  and  for  their 
son.  But  there  was  in  her — as  was  revealed  by  her 
chin,  a  little  long  and  square,  her  abbreviated  nose, 
and  the  energy  of  her  brow — that  particular  force  of  in- 
flexibility which  is  only  to  be  met  in  characters  of  ab- 
solute uprightness.  Love  with  her  would  be  smoth- 
ered by  disgust,  or  at  least — for  we  are  masters  of  our 
acts  only — she  would  consider  base  the  fact  of  continu- 
ing to  love  one  whom  she  despised.  At  this  moment  it 
was  this  irremediable  contempt  that  ruled  in  her  heart. 
She  had,  to  the  highest  degree,  the  great  virtues  which 
are  met  wherever  there  is  inward  nobility,  and  which 
the  English  have  made  the  basis  of  their  moral  educa- 
tion: religion,  fanaticism,  and  loyalty.  She  had  al- 
ways been  pained  by  perceiving  the  unstable  portions 
of  Boleslas's  nature.  But  if  she  had  with  sorrow  ob- 
served in  him  exaggerations  of  language,  falseness  of 
sentiment,  a  dangerous  limbemess  of  conscience,  she 
had  forgiven  him  these  faults  with  the  magnanimity 
of  love,  attributing  them  to  a  bad  education.  Gorka 
had  found  himself  involved,  very  young,  in  a  family 
tragedy,  his  father  and  mother  being  separated,  and 
neither  one  having  the  exclusive  direction  of  the  child. 
Per  contra,  how  could  she  find  any  indulgence  for  that 


226  COSMOPOLIS. 

shameful  hypocrisy  during"  two  years,  for  the  wicked- 
ness of  that  treason  installed  at  the  family  hearth, 
for  that  continuous,  planned,  wilful  disloyalty  of  every 
day  and  every  hour  ?  Therefore,  Maud,  when  she  re- 
turned to  the  Doria  Palace,  felt  in  her  despair  the  sort 
of  calm  which  is  given  by  the  assurance  of  a  fixed  and 
just  resolve.  Yet  what  a  tragedy  had  been  played  in  her 
heart  since  she  had  left  the  house  !  However,  it  was 
in  a  voice  almost  as  calm  as  usual  that  she  asked  : 

"  Is  the  Count  at  home  ? " 

What  did  she  feel  when  the  servant,  having  an- 
swered in  the  affirmative,  added  :  "  Mme.  and  Mdlle. 
Steno  are  also  in  the  drawing-room,  waiting  for  ma- 
dame."  At  the  thought  that  the  woman  who  had 
captivated  her  husband  was  there,  the  betrayed  wife, 
to  use  the  vulgar  but  forcible  expression  of  the  peo- 
ple, felt  her  heart  stand  still.  It  was  very  natural  that 
Alba's  mother  should  have  come  to  call,  as  was  her 
habit.  It  was  even  more  natural  that  she  should  have 
come  to-day.  Very  probably  some  echo  of  the  next 
day's  duel  had  reached  her.  However,  her  presence, 
at  this  moment,  aroused  in  Maud  a  movement  of  indig- 
nation so  passionate  that  her  first  instinct  was  to  en- 
ter and  drive  away  Boleslas's  mistress  as  we  drive  away 
a  servant  caught  in  the  act  of  stealing.  Suddenly  the 
image  of  Alba  rose  before  her,  of  that  sweet  and  pure 
Alba,  whose  soul  was  as  white  as  her  name,  and  whose 
dearest  friend  she  was.  In  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts 
since  the  fatal  revelation,  she  had  more  than  once  re- 
membered the  young  girl.  But  her  sorrow  had  ab- 
sorbed all  the  power  of  her  soul,  and  she  could  not  feel, 
existing  within  her,  this  friendship  for  the  delicate  and 
pretty  child.  At  the  moment  for  ejecting  her  rival, 
according  to  her  right  and  almost  her  duty,  this  feel- 
ing moved  within  her.  A  strange  pity  flooded  her 
heart  and  made  her  stop  in  the  centre  of  the  great  ves- 
tibule, ornamented  with  statues  and  columns,  through 
which  she  was  passing  to  reach   the   drawing-room. 


THE  DUEL.  227 

She  called  to  the  servant  just  as  the  latter  placed  his 
hand  on  the  door-knob.  The  analogy  between  her 
situation  and  Alba's  had  struck  her  with  too  much 
bitterness.  She  had  felt,  in  the  flash  of  a  moment,  that 
impression  so  often  felt  by  Alba  herself  about  Fanny, 
that  sympathy  for  a  sorrow  which  would  be  too  similar 
to  her  own.  She  could  not  give  her  hand  to  Mme. 
Steno  after  what  she  knew,  or  speak  to  her  except  to 
expel  her  from  the  house ;  yet  to  say  before  Alba  a 
single  word,  to  make  a  single  gesture  which  would 
undeceive  the  poor  girl  about  her  mother  in  this  man- 
ner, would  be  too  implacable,  too  iniquitous  a  ven- 
geance !  She  turned  away  to  pass  through  the  door 
leading  into  her  own  private  apartments  and  gave 
the  order  that  her  husband  be  asked  to  come  to  her. 
She  had  Just  imagined  a  means  to  satisfy  her  righteous 
auger  without  wounding  to  the  heart  her  ever  dear 
friend,  who  was  not  responsible  if  the  two  infamous 
ones  had  sheltered  themselves  behind  her  innocence. 
Hardly  had  she  entered  the  little  boudoir  which  pre- 
ceded her  bedroom  when  she  seated  herself  at  her 
desk,  on  which  was  a  picture  of  Mme.  Steno  in  a  group 
composed  of  Boleslas,  Alba,  and  herself.  This  picture 
smiled  a  smile  of  such  superb  insolence  that  the  out- 
raged wife's  frenzy  of  rancor,  interrupted  or  rather  sus- 
pended for  a  few  moments  through  pity,  suddenly  re- 
turned. She  took  the  frame  between  her  hands  and 
threw  it  upon  the  floor,  crushing  the  glass  under  her 
feet.  Then  she  began  to  write,  on  the  first  sheet  of 
paper  she  found  under  her  trembling  fingers,  one  of 
those  letters  that  passion  alone  would  dare  dictate 
and  Avhich  stop  at  no  word :  "  I  know  all.  You  have 
been  my  husband's  mistress  for  two  years.  Do  not 
deny  it.  I  have  seen  your  confession  written  by  your 
own  hand.  I  wish  never  to  speak  to  you  nor  see  you. 
Arrange  it  so  that  you  never  set  your  foot  in  my  house. 
If  I  do  not  have  you  driven  out  to-day,  it  is  for  your 
daughter's  sake.    A  second  time  I  should  not  be  so 


"228  COSMOPOLIS. 

forbearing'."  And  she  was  bravely  signing-,  "  Maud 
Gorka,"  when  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  and  then 
closing  again,  made  her  turn  round.  Boleslas  was  before 
her.  His  face  wore  an  ambiguous  expression  which 
completed  the  wretched  woman's  exasperation.  Hav- 
ing returned  home  more  than  an  hour  before,  he  had 
learned  that  Maud  had  accompanied  Mrs.  Maitland,  who 
was  ill,  to  the  Via  Leopardi,  and  he  had  awaited  her 
coming  with  a  cruel  impatience,  very  much  upset  at  the 
thought  that  Florent's  sister  was  doubtless  ill  on  ac- 
count of  the  next  day's  duel,  and  that,  in  that  case, 
Maud,  too,  knew  all.  There  are  conversations,  and 
above  all  partings,  which  a  man  who  is  about  to  fight 
prefers  to  avoid.  Although  he  forced  himself  to  smile, 
he  no  longer  doubted.  His  wife's  visible  agitation 
could  be  explained  in  no  other  way.  Could  he  guess 
that  she  had  heard  not  only  of  the  duel,  but  of  the  now 
ended  intrigue  which  she  had  not  discovered  for  two 
years  ?  As  she  was  silent,  and  this  silence  embarrassed 
him  with  its  menace,  he  wished  to  take  her  hand  and 
kiss  it,  as  was  his  custom.  She  pushed  him  back  with 
a  glance  he  did  not  know,  and,  handing  him  the  sheet  of 
paper  she  had  before  her,  said  to  him  : 

"  Will  you  read  this  note  before  I  send  it  to  Mme. 
Steno,  who  is  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  with  her 
daughter." 

Boleslas  took  the  letter.  He  glanced  over  these  ter- 
rible lines  and  became  livid.  His  surprise  Avas  such  that 
he  returned  the  paper  to  his  wife  Avithout  saying  a  word, 
without  trying  to  prevent,  as  was  his  duty,  the  inflicting 
of  this  insult  on  his  former  mistress,  whom  he  still  loved 
to  the  point  of  risking  his  life  for  her.  This  man,  who 
was  at  the  same  time  so  brave  and  so  compliant,  was 
crushed  by  one  of  those  surprises  which  throw  all  the 
powers  of  the  soul  into  confusion,  and  he  watched  Maud 
slip  the  paper  into  an  envelope,  write  the  address  and 
ring.     He  heard  her  tell  the  servant : 

"  You  will  give  this  note  to  the  Countess  Steno,  and 


THE  DUEL.  229 

beg-  those  ladies  to  excuse  me.  ...  I  feel  too  badly 
to  receive  any  one.  If  they  insist,  you  will  say  that  I 
wish  to  see  no  one.    You  hear  ?  absolutely  no  one." 

The  man  had  already  taken  the  note.  He  had  left  the 
room  and  he  had  no  doubt  accomplished  his  message 
while  these  two  stood  there,  facing  each  other  without 
either  one  having*  broken  this  new  and  formidable  si- 
lence. They  felt  too  well  the  solemnity  of  the  hour. 
Never  since  the  day  when  Cardinal  Manning-  had  united 
their  destinies  in  the  old  chapel  of  Ardrahan  Castle,  had 
they  found  themselves  in  such  a  tragic  crisis.  Such 
moments  lay  bare  the  very  depth  of  character.  The 
noble  and  courageous  Maud  did  not  think  of  weighing 
her  words.  She  cared  neither  to  feed  her  jealousy  with 
new  details  nor  to  sharj^en  more  cruelly  the  point  of  the 
defiance  she  had  the  right  to  throw  in  the  face  of  this 
man  with  whom  she  had  been,  even  that  very  morning, 
so  confiding,  so  tender,  so  yielding.  Baseness  and 
cruelty  would  ever  remain  foreign  to  this  woman,  who 
had  no  hesitation  about  the  proud  resolution  she  had 
taken.  No.  What  she  expected  from  this  man  whom 
she  had  loved  so  much,  whom  she  had  placed  so  high, 
whom  she  had  first  seen  fall  so  low,  was  a  cry  of  truth, 
an  avowal  in  which  she  would  find  the  palpitation  of  a 
last  remnant  of  honor.  And  if  he  himself  was  silent,  it 
was  not  that  he  was  preparing  to  deny.  The  contents  of 
Maud's  note  did  not  permit  him  to  have  any  doubts  of 
the  quality  of  the  proofs  she  had  held  in  her  hands, 
that  she  probably  still  held.  How?  He  did  not  ask 
himself  that  question,  ruled  as  he  was  by  a  phenomenon 
in  which  the  singular  complexity  of  his  nature  was  fully 
revealed.  That  which  perhaps  characterizes  the  Slavs 
in  the  most  special  way  is  a  prodigious  power  of  nerv- 
ous instantaneousness,  if  it  be  permissible  to  employ 
so  strange  a  formula  for  a  moral  phase,  still  stranger 
in  our  Western  and  Latin  eyes.  It  seems  that  these 
beings,  with  wavering  hearts,  have  a  faculty  of  amplify- 
ing within  themselves,  until  the  whole  heart  is  absorbed, 


230  COSMOPOLIS. 

states  of  partial,  passing,  and  yet  sincere  emotion.  The 
intensity  of  their  momentary  excitement  thus  makes 
them  actors  in  good  faith,  who  speak  to  you  as  if  they 
felt  certain  sentiments,  in  an  exclusive  fashion,  though 
they  may  feel  contradictory  ones  the  next  day  with  the 
same  fervor.  With  the  same  falsehood,  the  victims  of 
these  natures  unjustly  say,  all  the  more  deceiving  for 
being  more  thrilling.  Boleslas  had  truly  suffered  in  find- 
ing that  Maud  was  fully  aware  of  his  criminal  intrigue, 
and  he  suffered  for  her  as  much  as  for  himself.  This 
was  sufficient  for  this  suffering  to  occupy,  during  some 
minutes  or  during  some  hours,  the  entire  field  of  his 
inward  eye.  He  was  about  to  assume  in  all  sincerity 
the  part  of  the  weak  and  passionate  husband  who  betrays 
his  wife  while  loving  her.  There  was  a  little  of  this  tinge 
in  his  adventure, — but  so  little! — and  yet  he  did  not 
believe  he  lied,  he  did  not  lie,  when  he  at  last  broke  this 
silence  to  say  to  her  whom  he  had  so  long  deceived : 

"  You  have  just  avenged  yourself  with  much  cruelty, 
Maud,  but  you  had  the  right — I  know  not  who  could 
have  denounced  to  you  a  misdeed  which  was  very  guilty, 
very  unworthy,  also  very  unfortunate.  ...  I  know 
that  I  have  somewhere,  in  Rome,  relentless  enemies  to 
work  my  ruin,  and  I  am  sure  they  have  left  me  no  means 
of  defence.  However,  had  they  left  me  any,  I  would 
not  make  use  of  them.  I  have  been  too  false  to  you,  and 
suffered  too  much  for  it."  He  stopped  after  these  words, 
uttered  with  a  thrill  of  conviction  which  was  not  pre- 
tended. He  had  forgotten  that  ten  minutes  earlier  he 
had  entered  the  room  with  the  firm  resolve  of  concealing 
his  duel  and  its  cause  from  this  woman  for  whose  for- 
giveness he  would,  without  hesitation,  at  this  moment, 
have  sacrificed  his  life.  He  continued,  in  a  voice  quiver- 
ing with  tenderness :  *'  Whatever  you  may  have  been 
told,  whatever  you  may  have  read,  I  swear  to  you,  you 
do  not  know  all ! " 

"  I  know  enough,"  interrupted  Maud,  "  since  I  know 
you  have  been  the  lover  of  that  woman,  of  the  mother  of 


THE   DUEL..  231 

my  best  friend,  beside  me,  under  my  eyes.  .  .  .  If 
you  had  sufiered  from  that  lie  as  you  say,  you  would  not 
have  waited  to  confess  all  to  me  until  I  held  in  my  hands 
the  indisputable  proofs  of  your  infamy.  .  .  ,  You 
have  thrown  ojff  your  mask — or  rather  I  have  snatched  it 
from  you.  I  wish  nothing-  more.  As  for  the  details  of 
this  ignoble  story,  spare  me  them.  It  is  not  to  hear 
them  that  I  returned  to  a  house  whose  every  corner 
reminds  me  that  I  believed  in  you  simply,  profoundly, 
blindly,  and  that  you  betrayed  me,  not  one  day,  but 
every  day ;  that  you  betrayed  me  again  day  before  yes- 
terday, yesterday,  to-day,  an  hour  ago — I  repeat  it, 
that  sufl&ces  for  me." 

"  But  that  does  not  suffice  for  me  !  "  cried  Boleslas. 
"  Yes,  all  that  you  have  said  to  me  is  true,  and  I  deserve 
all  that  you  say.  But  what  you  could  not  read  in  the 
papers  which  have  been  g-iven  to  you,  what  I  have  kept 
for  two  years  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  and  must  now 
utter,  is,  that  through  these  fatal  temptations,  I  have 
never  ceased  to  love  you.  Ah !  Don't  move  away  from 
me ;  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I  have  felt  once  more,  in 
the  heartrending-  I  have  just  endured,  that  there  is 
something  within  me  which  has  never  ceased  to  be 
yours.  This  woman  may  have  been  my  aberration. 
She  may  have  been  my  folly,  captivating-  my  senses,  my 
passion,  all  the  evil  instincts  of  my  being-.  You  have 
remained  my  worship,  my  tenderness,  my  religion.  If 
I  deceived  you,  it  is  because  I  realized  too  well  that  the 
day  when  you  would  know  my  crime,  I  should  see  you 
there  before  me,  desperate  and  implacable.  As  you  are, 
as  I  cannot  bear  you  to  be.  .  .  .  Ah !  judge  me, 
condemn  me,  curse  me,  but  know,  but  feel,  that  in  spite 
of  all,  I  have  loved  you,  I  love  you.    ..." 

He  had  again  spoken  with  an  excitement  which  was 
not  feigned.  Betrayed  as  he  had  just  been,  and  so  pain- 
fully, he  understood  too  well  the  worth  of  the  loyal 
creature  he  had  before  him  and  whom  he  ran  the  risk  of 
losing.    If  he  did  not  move  her  at  this  moment,  on  the 


232  CGSMOPOLIS. 

eve  of  a  duel,  when  could  he  move  her?  So  he  ap- 
proached her  with  the  same  gestures  of  suppliant  and 
passionate  adoration  that  he  had  used  formerly,  when  at 
the  beg-inning-  of  their  marriage,  and  before  his  treach- 
ery, he  told  her  his  love.  No  doubt  this  memory  forced 
itself  on  Maud  and  revolted  her.  It  was  with  real  hor- 
ror that  she  moved  farther  back  and  answered : 

"Hush!  This  falsehood  is  even  more  hideous  than 
the  others.  It  hurts  me  more.  I  am  too  much  ashamed 
to  see  that  you  have  not  even  the  courage  of  your 
iniquity.  God  is  my  witness  that  I  would  still  have 
found  some  esteem  for  you  if  you  had  said  to  me :  '  I 
have  ceased  to  love  you.  I  took  a  mistress.  I  found  it 
convenient  to  deceive  you.  I  deceived  you.  I  have  sac- 
rificed everything  to  my  passion  :  my  honor,  my  duties, 
my  oaths,  and  you  with  them.'  Ah !  speak  to  me  in 
this  way,  that  I  may  have  some  sense  of  your  truth.  .  .  , 
But  that  you  should  dare  to  repeat  words  of  tenderness 
after  what  you  have  done  inspires  me  with  too  great  re- 
pulsion.   It  is  too  bitter." 

"  Yes,"  said  Boleslas,  "  you  must  think  that ;  true  and 
simple  as  you  are,  where  would  you  have  learned  to  un- 
derstand a  weak  will  that  wishes  and  does  not  wish, 
that  rises  and  falls  ?  And  yet  if  I  did  not  love  you,  on 
what  account  would  I  speak  falsely  to  you?  Have  I 
anything  to  conceal  now  ?  Ah !  if  you  knew  in  what  po- 
sition I  am  now,  on  the  eve  of  what  day.  I  beg  you  to  be- 
lieve at  least  that  the  better  part  of  my  being  has  never 
ceased  to  be  yours."  This  allusion  to  his  duel  was 
the  strongest  attempt  he  could  make  to  bring  back  to 
him  that  wife's  heart  so  deeply  wounded.  If  she  had 
not  spoken  of  it,  it  was  no  doubt  because  she  was  still 
ignorant  of  it.  Therefore,  he  was  upset  anew  by  what 
she  answered  him,  and  which  proved  to  what  a  degree 
indignation  had  paralyzed  everything  in  her,  even  love. 
He  repeated :   "  If  you  knew.     .     ,     .  ? " 

"  That  you  fight  a  duel  to-morrow  ?  I  know  it,"  said 
she.     "  And  for  your  mistress ;  I  know  that  too.    .    .    ." 


THE   DUEL.  233 

" But  it  is  not  true,"  he  cried;  "it  is  not  for  her." 

"  What  ? "  said  Maud,  with  increasing:  energy.  "  It  was 
not  on  her  account  that  you  went  to  the  Via  Leopardi 
to  challenge  your  rival  ?  Because  she  is  not  even  faith- 
ful to  you,  which  is  justice.  It  was  not  for  her  sake  that 
you  wished  to  enter  the  house  in  spite  of  this  rival's 
brother-in-law,  and  that  a  discussion  arose  between  you, 
followed  by  this  duel  ?  It  was  not  for  her  sake,  and  to 
avenge  yourself,  that  you  returned  from  Warsaw  because 
you  had  received  anonymous  letters  which  told  you  all  ? 
— and  knowing  all,  has  not  forever  disgusted  you  with 
this  creature!  Had  she  deigned  to  conceal  this  from 
you,  she  would  have  you  still  at  her  feet,  and  you  dare 
tell  me  that  you  love  me  when  you  have  not  even  spared 
me  from  the  insult  of  knowing  all  these  villainies,  all 
this  baseness,  all  this  shame,  through  another  per- 
son ! " 

"  Whom  ? "  he  asked.  "  At  least  name  this  Judas  for 
me!" 

"  Do  not  utter  that  word,"  interrupted  Maud,  bitterly. 
"  You  have  lost  the  right.  .  .  .  And  do  not  seek  so 
far.    I  have  seen  only  Mrs.  Maitland  to-day.    ..." 

"Mrs.  Maitland?"  repeated  Boleslas.  "It  is  Mrs. 
Maitland  who  denounced  me  to  you  ?  Mrs.  Maitland 
wrote  the  anonymous  letters  ?  " 

"  She  wanted  to  avenge  herself,"  replied  Maud,  who 
added :  "  She  had  the  right  to  do  so,  since  your  mis- 
tress had  taken  her  husband." 

"  Well,  I,  too,  will  avenge  myself,"  cried  the  young 
man.  "  I  will  kill  that  husband,  since  she  loves  him, 
after  having  killed  her  brother.  I  will  kill  them  both, 
one  after  the  other."  His  mobile  face,  which  had  just 
expressed  the  most  passionate  supplication,  now  ex- 
pressed only  hatred  and  fury,  and  the  same  change 
had  been  accomplished  in  his  disordered  sensibility. 
"  Why  should  I  spare  anything,"  he  continued,  "  to-day 
that  I  no  longer  have  you  to  spare,  and  you  alone 
restrained  me  ?    I  see  it  too  well,  all  is  over  between 


234  COSMOPOLIS. 

US.  Your  pride  and  your  rancor  are  stronger  than  your 
love.  If  it  were  otherwise,  you  would  have  begged  me 
not  to  go  and  fight,  and  you  would  not  have  made  me 
the  reproaches  you  did  at  first,  which  you  had  the  right 
to  make,  I  do  not  deny  it.  But  from  the  moment  that 
you  yourself  no  longer  love  me,  woe  to  whomsoever 
crosses  my  path !  Woe  to  Mrs.  Maitland  and  to  those 
she  loves ! " 

"  This  time  at  least  you  are  sincere,"  replied  Maud, 
with  increased  bitterness.  "You  think  I  have  not 
suffered  enough  humiliations  ?  You  would  wish  that  I, 
your  wife,  should  beg  you  not  to  fight  for  that  creature  ? 
And  you  do  not  feel  what  a  supreme  outrage  there 
would  be  for  me  in  that  meeting  ?  Besides,"  she  added, 
with  tragical  solemnity,  "  I  did  not  ask  you  to  come  to 
have  an  interview  as  painful  as  it  is  useless,  but  to  tell 
you  my  resolution.  ...  I  hope  you  will  not  compel 
me  to  have  recourse  to  the  means  the  law  gives  me  to 
execute  it." 

"  I  have  not  deserved  that  you  should  speak  to  me 
thus,"  said  Boleslas,  haughtily. 

"  I  shall  sleep  here  to-night,"  said  Maud,  without  no- 
ticing his  answer,  "for  the  last  time,  and  to-morrow 
night  I  leave  for  England." 

"  You  are  free,"  said  he,  bowing. 

"  And  I  shall  take  my  son,"  she  continued. 

"  Our  son,"  he  answered,  with  the  coolness  of  a  man 
repulsed  in  an  outbust  of  tenderness,  and  who  takes  it 
back.     "That,  no.    I  refuse." 

"  You  refuse  ?  "  said  she.  "  Very  well.  We  shall  go  to 
law !  I  knew  it,"  she  added,  haughtily,  in  turn,  "  that 
you  would  force  me  to  have  recourse  to  law.  But  nei- 
ther shall  I  stop  at  anything.  In  betraying  me  as  you 
have  done,  you  have  also  betrayed  your  child.  I  shall 
not  leave  him  with  you.    You  are  no  longer  worthy." 

"  Listen,  Maud,"  resumed  Boleslas,  after  a  pause  and 
with  effort,  "  think  that  it  is  perhaps  the  last  time  that 
we  meet.    To-morrow,  if  I  have  fallen,  you  may  do  as 


THE  DUEL.  235 

you  choose.  If  I  live  I  promise  to  consent  to  any  just 
arrangement.  What  I  ask  and  in  spite  of  my  errors,  I 
have  the  right  to  do  so,  in  the  name  of  those  first  years, 
in  the  name  of  that  son  himself,  is,  that  you  leave  me 
with  another  farewell,  and  have  a  movement,  I  shall  not 
say  of  forgiveness,  but  of  pity." 

"  Did  you  have  any  for  me,"  she  answered,  "when  you 
ran  to  your  passion  over  my  heart  ?  No ! "  And  she 
passed  before  him  to  reach  the  door,  giving  him  a  glance 
so  proud  that  he  lowered  his  eyes.  "You  have  no 
longer  a  wife  and  I  have  no  longer  a  husband.  I  am  not 
a  Mrs.  Maitland,  to  avenge  myself  with  anonymous  let- 
ters and  denunciations.  But  forgive  you  ?  Never— do 
you  hear,  never !  " 

And  she  went  out  after  these  words,  into  which  she 
had  succeeded  in  putting  all  the  indomitable  energy  of 
her  character.  Boleslas  did  not  try  to  keep  her.  When, 
an  hour  after  this  horrible  conversation,  his  valet  came 
to  tell  him  that  dinner  was  about  to  be  served,  the  wret- 
ched man  was  still  in  the  same  spot  with  his  elbow 
resting  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  his  head  in  his  hand. 
He  knew  Maud  too  well  to  hope  that  her  will  would 
change,  and  there  was  in  him,  notwithstanding  his 
faults,  his  follies,  and  his  perplexities,  too  much  true 
gentlemanliness  to  employ  means  of  violence  to  keep 
her  in  spite  of  herself,  when  he  had  so  failed  toward 
her.  So  she  was  going !  If  he  had  just  now  exaggerated 
the  expression  of  his  sentiments  in  saying  or  rather 
imagining  that  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  her,  it  was 
true  that  through  all  his  failings  he  had  kept  for  her 
a  peculiar  affection  made  up  of  gratitude,  remorse, 
esteem,  and,  it  must  be  said,  selfishness.  He  cherished 
in  her,  a  heart  of  whose  devotion  he  was  absolutely  sure, 
and  then,  like  a  great  many  husbands  who  deceive  an 
irreproachable  wife,  he  was  proud  of  her  though  he  was 
unfaithful.  She  appeared  to  him  at  the  same  time  the 
dignity  and  charity  of  his  life.  She  had  remained  in 
his  eyes  the  one  to  whom  be  must  always  return,  the 


236  COSMOPOLIS. 

sure  friend  in  moments  of  trial,  the  port  after  the  tem- 
pest, the  peace  of  his  soul,  when  he  had  wearied  of  the 
turbulence  of  passion.  What  existence  should  be  his 
when  she  had  left  him?  For  she  would  leave  him. 
This  resolution  was  irrevocable.  Everything  crumbled 
around  him.  The  mistress,  to  whom  he  had  sacrificed 
the  noblest  and  most  loving  heart,  he  had  lost  her  under 
conditions  so  abject  that  their  two  years  of  passion 
were  dishonored.  His  wife  was  going — and  would  he 
succeed  in  keeping  his  son  ?  He  had  returned  to  avenge 
himself  and  he  had  not  even  succeeded  in  reaching  his 
rival.  This  impressionable  creature  then  felt,  under  these 
repeated  blows,  a  discouragement  so  absolute  that  he 
found  sweet  the  prospect  of  exposing  his  life  the  next 
day.  At  the  same  time  a  more  bitter  flood  of  rancor 
flowed  from  his  soul  at  the  thought  of  all  the  persons 
mixed  up  in  his  adventure.  He  would  have  liked  to 
crush  in  his  hands  Mme.  Steno  and  Maitland,  and  Lydia, 
and  Florent ;  Dorsenne,  too,  for  having  given  him  that 
false  pledge  which  had  exasperated  his  thirst  for  venge- 
ance by  misleading  him  for  a  few  hours.  This  tumult 
of  thought  only  increased  when  he  was  seated  at  the  din- 
ner-table, alone  with  his  son.  That  very  morning,  he 
had  had  opposite  him,  his  wife's  smile  and  her  eyes. 
The  lack  of  this  presence,  whose  unique  value  he  felt  at 
that  moment,  was  so  deeply  painful  to  him,  that  he 
wished  to  make  a  last  attempt.  After  the  meal,  he 
begged  little  Luke  to  go  and  see  if  his  mother  would 
receive  them  both.  The  child  came  back  with  a  nega- 
tive answer. 

"  Mamma  is  resting  and  begs  not  to  be  disturbed." 
The  thing  was  then  unpardonable.  She  would  not  see 
her  husband  until  the  next  day — if  he  lived.  Though 
Boleslas,  while  practising  before  the  admiring  eyes  of 
his  witnesses  that  afternoon,  had  convinced  himself  that 
he  had  lost  nothing  of  his  skill  with  the  pistol — a  duel 
is  always  a  lottery.  He  might  be  killed,  and  if  this  pos- 
sibility had  not  moved  the  wounded  wife,  what  prayer 


THE   DUEL.  237 

could  move  her?  He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  at  that 
moment,  with  closed  blinds  and  no  light,  suffering  in 
the  darkness  with  that  ang-uish  which  curses  and  does 
not  forgive.  Ah !  How  cruel  this  image  seemed  to  him  ! 
And  that  she  might  at  least  know  (through  a  testimony 
that  she  would  not  doubt),  how  much  he,  too,  suffered, 
he  took  his  son  in  his  arms  and  pressed  him  to  his 
breast,  saying : 

"If  you  see  your  mother  before  me,  you  will  tell  her  that 
we  spent  a  very  sad  evening  without  her,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  cried  the  child.  "  You  have 
wet  all  my  cheek.     Are  you  crying  ?  " 

**  You  will  tell  her  that,  too,  you  promise  me,"  answered 
the  father,  "  that  she  may  take  good  care  of  herself,  see- 
ing how  we  love  her." 

"But,"  said  the  little  boy,  "she  was  not  ill  when 
we  walked  out  together  after  breakfast.  She  was  so 
gay.    .     .     ." 

"  So  I  think  it  will  be  nothing,"  replied  Gorka.  He 
had  to  send  away  his  boy  and  go  out.  He  felt  so  horribly 
sad  that  he  was  physically  afraid  to  remain  alone  in  the 
house.  But  where  could  he  go "?  He  went  mechanically 
to  the  club,  although  it  was  too  early  to  meet  a  large 
company.  He  came  upon  Pietrapertosa  and  Cibo,  who 
had  dined  there,  and  who,  lounging  on  one  of  the  divans, 
conferred  in  a  low  voice,  with  the  gravity  of  two  am- 
bassadors discussing  the  Bulgarian  or  the  Egyptian 
question. 

"  You  look  nervous,"  they  said  to  Boleslas ;  "  you,  who 
were  in  such  good  trim  this  afternoon.     .     .     ." 

"  Yes,"  insisted  Cibo,  "  you  should  have  dined  with  us 
as  we  asked  you." 

"When  a  man  is  to  fight  the  next  day,"  continued 
Pietrapertosa,  sententiously,  "he  must  see  neither  his 
wife  nor  his  mistress.  Mme.  Gorka  suspects  nothing,  I 
hope  ?  " 

"Absolutely  nothing,"  replied  Boleslas ;  "  but  you  are 
right.    I  would  have  done  better  not  to  leave  you.    Well, 


238  COSMOPOLIS. 

here  I  am.  We  shall  lay  aside  all  gloomy  thoughts  with 
cards  and  supper." 

"  Cards  and  supper ! "  cried  Pietrapertosa.  "  And  your 
hand  1  Think  of  your  hand.  You  will  tremble  and  miss 
your  man.  I  saw  Casal,  at  Gastinne's,  fail  to  hit  the 
bull's-eye  once  in  fifty  shots,  because  he  had  broken  the 
bank  the  night  before.     .     .     ." 

"A  light  dinner,"  said  Cibo;  "then  go  to  bed  at  ten 
o'clock,  rise  at  half -past  six,  and  take  at  once  two  soft 
boiled  eggs  and  a  glass  of  old  port.  That  is  Machault's 
receipt,  which  I  give  you.     .     .     ." 

"  And  which  I  shall  not  follow,"  said  Boleslas,  who 
added,  "  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  that  if  I  had  no 
other  care  besides  this  duel,  you  would  not  see  me  in 
this  state." 

He  had  uttered  this  phrase  in  a  tragical  voice,  the  sin- 
cerity of  which  was  felt  by  the  two  Italians.  They  looked 
at  each  other  without  further  insisting.  They  were  too 
clever  and  to  well  up  in  all  the  gossip  of  that  large  vil- 
lage of  Rome,  not  to  have  guessed  the  true  cause  of  the 
meeting  between  Florent  and  Boleslas.  On  the  other 
hand  they  knew  the  latter  too  well  not  to  mistrust  al- 
ways his  attitudes  a  little.  There  was,  however,  so  much 
simple  emotion  in  his  tone,  that  they  pitied  him  spon- 
taneously, and,  without  previous  agreement,  they  raised 
no  more  objection  to  the  caprices  of  their  fantastic  client, 
whom  they  left  only  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  And 
most  fortunate  it  was  for  them.  Boleslas,  having  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  gamble  toward  midnight,  in  spite  of 
the  evoked  spectre  of  Casal's  bad  shots,  and  having  offered 
them  a  percentage  on  his  play — they  found  themselves 
at  the  end  of  a  game  carried  on  with  extraordinary  luck, 
each  with  two  or  three  hundred  louis.  This  meant  several 
days  longer  in  Paris  at  the  next  trip.  Therefore  they 
had  great  merit  in  regretting  their  friend's  good  fortune 
as  they  did  at  the  parting. 

"  I  am  afraid  for  him,"  said  Cibo.  "  This  luck  in  cards 
on  the  eve  of  a  duel  is  a  bad  sign,  a  very  bad  sign." 


THE  DUEL.  239 

"  All  the  more  that  some  one  was  there,"  replied  Pietra- 
pertosa,  making  with  his  fingers  that  sign  that  drives 
away  the  jettatura.  For  nothing  in  the  world  would  he 
have  named  the  personage  against  whose  evil  eye  he 
thus  protected  himself.  But  Cibo  understood  him,  and, 
drawing  from  his  trowser  pocket  his  watch,  which  he 
wore  in  the  English  style  with  a  safety  chain  fastened 
to  his  belt,  he  showed  among  the  trinkets  a  little  gold 
horn. 

*'  I  held  it  the  whole  evening,"  said  he.  "  The  worst  of 
it  is  that  Gorka  will  not  sleep,  and  then  the  hand.    .    .    ." 

The  first  of  these  prognostics  was  alone  to  come  true. 
Among  the  singular  facts  which  are  observed  in  certain 
crises  of  nervous  overexcitement,  we  must  place  that  in- 
defatigableness  which  no  doubt  consumes  the  deep  re- 
serve forces  of  life,  but  which,  for  the  moment,  seems  of 
the  nature  of  a  miracle.  Having  returned  at  this  foolishly 
late  hour,  Boleslas  did  not  even  go  to  bed.  He  employ- 
ed the  rest  of  the  night  in  writing  a  long  letter  to  his 
wife  and  one  to  his  son,  to  be  given  to  him  on  his  eight- 
eenth birthday.  All  this  in  the  event  of  a  misfortune. 
Then  he  looked  over  his  papers  and  came  across  a  pack- 
age of  letters  he  had  received  from  Mme.  Steno.  Reading 
over  a  few  of  them  and  looking  at  the  portraits  of  this 
unfaithful  mistress,  excited  his  anger  to  such  a  pitch  that 
he  enclosed  them  all  in  a  large  envelope  addressed  to 
Lincoln  Maitland.  He  had  no  sooner  sealed  it  than  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  saying :  "  What  is  the  use  ? " 
He  removed  the  draping  that  concealed  the  fireplace, 
and  laying  this  envelope  on  the  andirons,  he  set  fire  to 
it.  Dawn  surprised  him  shaking  with  the  tongs  the 
remains  of  what  had  been  the  most  ardent,  the  most 
complete  passion  of  his  life,  and  he  pushed  into  the 
flame  those  pieces  of  paper  which  still  remained  intact. 
This  unreasonable  use  of  a  night  which  might  be  his 
last,  had  scarcely  blanched  his  face.  However,  his  friends 
who  knew  him  well,  trembled  to  see  his  expression  of 
sinister  impassibility  as  he  alighted  from  his  phaeton, 


240  COSMOPOLIS. 

before  the  inn  fixed  upon  for  the  place  of  meeting.  He 
had  ordered  this  carriage  the  day  before,  in  order  to  de- 
ceive his  wife  by  the  appearance  of  one  of  those  morn- 
ing drives,  which  it  was  his  habit  to  take.  In  his  moral 
confusion  he  had  forgotten  to  countermand  the  order, 
and  this  chance  enabled  him  to  escape  the  two  police 
oiiicers  ordered  by  the  questorship  to  watch  the  Doria 
Palace,  after  Lydia  Maitland's  denunciation.  The  hack 
taken  by  these  agents  had  soon  lost  track  of  the  fiery 
English  horse,  driven  as  a  man  of  his  temperament  in 
that  moral  condition  could  drive.  The  precaution  adopt- 
ed by  Chapron's  sister  proved  fruitless  on  this  side,  and 
was  no  more  successful  with  her  brother,  who,  to  avoid 
all  explanations  with  Lincoln,  decided  to  dine  and  sleep 
at  a  hotel,  under  pretext  of  a  visit  to  the  country.  It 
was  there  that  Montfanon  and  Dorsenne  had  come  for 
him  in  the  classical  landau,  to  conduct  him  to  the  place 
of  meeting.  In  the  vicinity  of  the  Circus  Maximus,  on 
the  Appian  Way,  they  had  been  passed  by  Boleslas  in 
his  phaeton. 

"  You  need  have  no  uneasiness,"  said  Montfanon  to 
Florent.  "  How  can  any  man  aim  true  when  he  tries  his 
arms  in  that  fashion  ?  " 

This  was  the  only  allusion  to  the  duel  made  by  the 
three  men  during  the  drive,  which  lasted  about  one 
hour.  Florent  had  conversed  as  was  his  habit,  asking 
all  manner  of  questions  of  detail  which  testified  his  love 
of  minute  information — the  greater  part  of  it  capable  of 
being  utilized  by  his  brother-in-law.  The  Marquis  had 
answered,  evoking  with  his  ordinary  erudition,  some  of 
the  memories  which  peopled  that  immense  campagna, 
covered  with  tombs,  mutilated  aqueducts,  ruined  villas, 
with  the  beautiful  curves  of  the  Alban  mountains  to 
close  it  in  the  distance.  Dorsenne  had  remained  silent. 
It  was  the  first  affair  in  which  he  had  taken  part,  and  his 
nervous  dread  was  extreme.  Tragic  presentiments  op- 
pressed his  heart,  and  at  the  same  time  he  feared  at 
every  moment  that  Montfanon's  religious  scruples  might 


THE  DUEL.  241 

reawaken  and  force  him  to  seek  another  witness  and  put 
off  a  solution  which  was  now  very  near.  However,  the 
stfug'g'le  which  was  taking  place  in  the  heart  of  the 
"  old  leaguer,"  between  the  gentleman  and  the  Chris- 
tian, betrayed  itself  during  the  whole  course  of  the 
drive  only  by  an  almost  imperceptible  gesture.  At  the 
moment  when  the  carriage  passed  before  the  entrance 
of  the  catacombs  of  Saint  Calixtus,  the  old  papal  sol- 
dier turned  aside  his  head.  Then  he  resumed  the  con- 
versation with  increased  vim,  to  relapse  again  into 
silence  when  the  carriage,  a  little  below  the  tomb  of  Ce- 
cilia Metella,  took  a  cross-road  in  the  direction  of  the 
Ardeatine  Way.  This  led  to  the  Osteria  del  Tempo  Per- 
so,  built  on  soil  belonging  to  Cibo,  and  where  the  combat 
was  to  take  place.  Before  this  hovel,  the  sign  of  which 
was  surmounted  by  the  scutcheon  of  Pope  Innocent 
VIII.,  three  carriages  were  already  standing ;  Gorka's 
phaeton,  a  landau  which  must  have  brought  Cibo, 
Pietrapertosa  and  the  surgeon,  and  a  simple  cart  in 
which  a  loader  had  come.  The  unusual  assemblage  of 
vehicles  ran  the  risk  of  attracting  the  attention  of  some 
carbineers  on  a  round,  but  Cibo  guaranteed  the  discre- 
tion of  the  innkeeper,  who  in  fact  bore  to  his  master 
the  devotion  of  the  vassal  to  the  lord,  which  is  still  fre- 
quent in  Italy.  So  the  three  new-comers  had  not  the 
least  explanation  to  give.  When  they  alighted  from  the 
carriage,  the  servant-girl  conducted  them  to  the  public 
room  in  which,  at  that  moment,  two  hunters  were  break- 
fasting with  their  guns  between  their  knees,  and  who, 
like  real  Bomans  from  Eome,  scarcely  deigned  to  look 
at  the  strangers.  These  passed  from  the  public  room 
into  a  little  yard,  then  from  this  yard  under  a  shed  into 
a  vast  enclosure  made  with  planks,  and  planted  here 
and  there  with  a  few  umbrella  pines.  This  empty  lot 
had  formerly  been  used  by  Cibo  as  a  sort  of  pasture  for 
horses.  He  had  tried  to  augment  his  rather  slender 
income  bj'' buying  chance  horses  destined  to  be  fattened 
by  rest  and    sold  again  to  hack-diivers    at   a    small 


242  COSMOPOLIS. 

profit.  The  speculation  having  failed,  the  spot  re- 
mained uncultivated  and  unoccupied,  save  in  such  cir- 
cumstances as  the  occurrence  of  that  morning. 

"  We  are  the  last,"  said  Montfanon,  looking  at  his 
watch ;  "  but  all  the  same  we  are  five  minutes  ahead  of 
time.  Remember,"  he  added,  speaking  to  Florent  in 
a  low  tone,  "  present  no  salient  points.  After  having 
shot  your  forearm  refold  in  the  upper  line — and  above 
all,  no  gestures." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Florent,  who  looked  at  the 
Marquis  and  at  Dorsenne  with  that  glance  that  was 
usually  for  Lincoln  only.  "  And  you  know,  whatever 
happens,  I  thank  you  for  all  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

The  young  man  had  put  so  much  grace  in  this  adieu, 
his  courage  was  so  sim^jle,  his  sacrifice  to  his  brother- 
in-law  so  magnanimous  and  so  natural ;  finally,  during 
these  two  days  the  two  witnesses  had  been  able  to  ap- 
preciate so  well  the  charm  of  that  admirable  nature, 
absolutely  devoid  of  all  thought  of  himself,  that  both 
pressed  his  hand  with  the  emotion  of  true  friends.  Be- 
sides, they  were  immediately  absorbed  in  the  series  of 
preparations  without  which,  to  persons  endowed  with 
any  sensibility,  the  character  of  assistant  would  be  phy- 
sically impossible.  With  men  of  experience  like  Mont- 
fanon, Cibo,  and  Pietrapertosa,  these  preliminaries  were 
soon  settled.  Their  code  of  law  is  as  precise  as  the 
path  of  a  bullet.  Twenty  minutes  after  the  entrance  of 
the  last  comers,  the  two  adversaries  stood  facing  each 
other.  The  signal  was  given.  The  two  pistol-shots 
were  fired  at  the  same  time,  and  Florent  fell  on  the 
already  scorched  grass  which  carpeted  the  enclosure. 
He  had  a  bullet  in  his  thigh.  Dorsenne  had  often  re- 
lated since  then,  as  a  singular  trait  of  literary  mania, 
that  at  the  veiy  second  when  the  wounded  man  fell,  he 
himself,  in  spite  of  the  anxiety  that  seized  him,  looked 
at  Montfanon  to  study  him.  He  added  that  never  had 
he  seen  a  face  express  sorrowful  pity  like  that  of  this 


THE  DUEL.  243 

man,  who,  scorning'  all  fear  of  man,  made  at  that  mo- 
ment the  sign  of  the  cross.  It  was  the  religious  man 
of  the  catacombs,  who,  having  left  the  altar  of  the  mar- 
tyrs to  perform  a  work  of  charity,  had  been  led  on  by 
anger  until  he  found  himself  under  the  necessity  of 
participating  in  a  duel — doubtless  asked  the  forgiveness 
of  God.  What  remorse  agitated  the  heart  of  that  fervent, 
almost  mystical  Christian,  so  strangely  mixed  up  in  a 
bloody  affair?  He  had  at  least  this  relief,  that  after  a 
first  examination,  and  when  Florent  had  been  carried 
into  the  room  prepared  for  any  chance,  the  physician 
answered  for  his  life.  The  ball  could  even  be  extracted 
on  the  spot,  and  as  neither  the  bone  nor  the  principal 
muscles  were  injured,  it  would  be  the  affair  of  a  few 
weeks  at  the  outside. 

"  There  only  remains  for  us  to  draw  up  our  official 
report ! "  concluded  Cibo,  who  had  brought  this  message. 

At  this  moment,  and  as  the  witnesses  were  preparing 
to  enter  the  little  house  for  this  last  and  reassuring 
formality,  there  happened  a  very  unexpected  incident 
which  was  to  transform  this  hitherto  commonplace  meet- 
ing into  one  of  those  memorable  duels  which  are  inde- 
finitely talked  about  before  the  club  chimneys,  and  in  the 
fencing  schools.  If  Pietrapertosa  and  Cibo  have  not 
ceased  since  that  morning  to  believe  in  the  jettatura  of 
the  "  somebody,"  whom  neither  one  had  named,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  they  are  very  unjust.  The  good  for- 
tune of  having  won  enough  money  to  augment  their 
Parisian  purse,  was  nothing  compared  to  the  discussion 
with  Casal,  Machault,  and  other  professionals,  of  the 
almost  unique  case  in  which  they  had  taken  part.  Bo- 
leslas  Gorka,  who,  after  the  fall  of  his  antagonist,  had 
walked  up  and  down  without  seeming  to  care  about  the 
danger  or  otherwise  of  the  wound,  suddenly  approached 
the  group  formed  by  the  four  men,  and  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  allowed  no  one  to  foresee  the  incredible  aggres- 
sion he  was  about  to  commit,  observed : 

"  Gentlemen,  I  ask  for  one  moment,"  he  urged.    "  I 


244  COSMOPOLIS. 

should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  M.  Dorsenne  in  your 
presence." 

"  I  am  at  your  orders,  Gorka,"  replied  Julien,  who  was 
not  deceived  about  his  former  friend's  hostile  intentions. 
He  did  not  guess  the  form  that  this  hostility  would  take, 
but  he  still  had  on  his  conscience  his  word  of  honor, 
falsely  given,  and  he  was  ready  to  give  satisfaction  for 
it. 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  sir,"  answered  Boleslas,  always 
with  the  same  insolently  ceremonious  politeness;  "you 
know  that  we  have  an  account  to  settle  together.  Now, 
as  I  have  some  motives  for  doubting  your  honor,  I 
wished  to  deprive  you  of  all  pretext  for  evasion."  And 
before  anyone  could  oppose  this  unheard-of  proceed- 
ing, he  had  raised  his  glove  and  struck  Dorsenne  across 
the  face.  While  Gorka  spoke,  the  novelist  turned 
frightfully  pale.  He  had  no  time  to  reply  to  the  atro- 
cious outrage  he  had  just  received  by  a  similar  outrage, 
because  the  three  spectators  of  the  scene  had  thrown 
themselves  between  him  and  the  aggressor.  He  could 
only  push  them  aside,  with  a  resolute  gesture : 

"  Take  care,  gentlemen,"  said  he.  "  In  preventing  me 
from  inflicting  on  M.  Gorka  the  correction  he  deserves, 
you  bind  yourselves  to  make  me  obtain  other  satisfac- 
tion. I  wish  it  immediate.  I  shall  not  leave  this  spot," 
he  continued,  "  until  I  have  obtained  it." 

"  Nor  I  until  I  have  given  it  to  you,"  replied  Boles- 
las.     "It  is  all  that  I  ask." 

"  No,  Dorsenne,"  cried  Montfanon,  who  had  been  the 
first  to  arrest  the  novelist's  arm,  already  raised,  "  you  will 
not  fight  thus.  In  the  first  place,  you  have  not  the 
right.  At  least  twenty-four  hours  must  elapse  between 
an  encounter  and  the  cause  of  the  encounter.  And, 
you,  gentlemen,  will  not  agree  to  act  as  witnesses  for 
M.  Gorka,  who  has  just  committed  such  a  grave  breach 
of  the  laws  of  duelling  ?  If  you  consent,  it  would  be 
barbarous,  mad,  anything  you  please,  but  it  will  not  be 
a  duel." 


THE   DUEL.  246 

"I  repeat,  Montfanon,"  resumed  Dorsenne,  "that  I 
shall  not  leave  here,  nor  shall  I  let  IVI.  Gorka  go,  before 
I  have  obtained  the  satisfaction  to  which  I  feel  that  I 
am  entitled  on  the  spot." 

"  And  I  repeat,  that  I,  too,  am  at  M.  Dorsenne's 
orders,  at  once,"  replied  Boleslas. 

"Very  well,  gentlemen,"  said  Montfanon.  "There 
remains  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  retire  and  leave 
you  to  settle  the  matter  between  you  as  you  please.  Is 
it  not  your  opinion?"  he  continued,  addressing  Cibo 
and  Pietrapertosa,  who  did  not  reply  immediately. 

"  Certainly,"  said  one.     "  The  case  is  difficult." 

"There  are  precedents,  however,"  insinuated  the 
other. 

"Yes,"  replied  Cibo,  "to  mention  only  Henri  de 
Pene's  two  successive  duels." 

"  This  appears  to  me  to  constitute  an  authority,"  con- 
cluded Pietrapertosa. 

"  There  can  be  no  authority,"  again  cried  Montfanon. 
"  I  know,  for  my  part,  that  I  did  not  come  to  be  present 
at  a  butchery,  and  I  shall  not  be  present.  I  am  going, 
gentlemen,  and  I  expect  you  to  do  the  same,  for  I  hardly 
expect  you  to  take  the  coachmen  to  act  as  witnesses. 
Good-by,  Dorsenne.  Do  not  doubt  my  friendship  for 
you.  I  believe  I  am  giving  you  a  real  proof  of  it,  in  not 
permitting  you  to  fight  under  such  conditions." 

AVhen  the  old  gentleman  had  returned  to  the  inn,  he 
waited  ten  minutes,  persuaded  that  his  departure  would 
decide  that  of  Cibo  and  Pietrapertosa,  and  that  this  new 
affair,  so  strangely  grafted  on  the  other,  would  be  put  off 
to  the  next  day.  He  had  spoken  the  truth.  It  was  his 
lively  friendship  for  Julien  that  made  him  apprehend  a 
duel  organized  in  that  manner,  under  the  influence  of 
just  anger.  Gorka's  unqualified  violence  surely  could  not 
permit  the  second  meeting  to  be  avoided.  But  the  more 
outrageous  the  insult  had  been,  the  more  important  it 
was  that  the  conditions  of  the  fight  should  be  settled 
coolly  and  after  severe  discussion.     To  beguile  his  im- 


246  COSMOPOLIS. 

patience  to  see  the  four  young  men  reappear,  Mont- 
fanon  asked  the  innkeeper  to  show  him  where  Florent 
had  been  carried,  and  he  mounted  the  first  floor  of  the 
house  into  the  narrow  room  where  the  physician  was 
dressing  the  wounded  man's  leg-. 

"You  see,"  said  the  latter,  with  a  tranquil  but  suffer- 
ing smile,  "I  shall  be  a  little  lame  for  a  month — and 
Dorsenne  ?  " 

"He  will  come,  I  hope,"  replied  Montfanon,  who  add- 
ed, with  exasperated  initation,  "Dorsenne  is  a  mad- 
man,— that  is  Dorsenne,  and  Gorka — a  wild  beast,  who 

should  be  shot  like  a  mad  wolf.     That  is  Gorka " 

And  he  related  the  episode  of  the  slap  in  the  face  to  the 
two  men,  who  were  so  astounded  that  the  doctor  stopped 
bandaging,  and  held  the  strip  of  linen  in  his  hand. 
"  And  they  wanted  to  fight  there,  right  away,  like  red 
Indians  ?  Why  not  scalp  each  other,  while  they  are  at 
it  ?  And  that  Cibo,  and  that  Pietrapertosa,  who 
would  have  consented  to  this  duel,  had  I  not  put  a  stop 
to  it !  Luckily  they  need  two  witnesses  and  it  is  not 
easy  to  find,  in  the  Boman  campagna,  two  worthy  wit- 
nesses, knowing  how  to  sign  a  report,  since  it  is  the  meth- 
od to-day  always  to  come  to  those  bits  of  paper.  We 
had  two  witnesses  of  that  kind,  one  of  my  friends  and  I, 
at  twenty  francs  apiece.  But  it  was  in  Paris,  in  '62." 
And  he  began  to  relate  the  ancient  affair,  to  beguile  an 
uneasiness  that  broke  out  again  in  interrupted  phrases. 
"  It  seems  they  do  not  decide  to  separate  very  fast.  It 
cannot  be  possible  that  they  fight.  Can  we  see  them 
from  here  ? "  And  he  approached  the  window  that 
looked  out  on  the  enclosure.  The  sight  that  met  his  eyes 
completed  the  upsetting  of  the  excellent  man,  who 
stammered  :  "  The  wretches !  But  it  is  monstrous. 
Are  they  all  crazy?  They  have  found  witnesses — and 
whom  have  they  taken?  Those  two  hunters,  down- 
stairs. Ah !  mon  Bleu  !  mon  Dieu  !  "  He  was  unable 
to  continue.  The  doctor  had  also  rushed  to  the  window 
to  see  what  was  going  on,  without  noticing  that  Florent 


THE  DUEL.  247 

was  also  dragging  himself  there.  Did  they  remain 
there  a  few  minutes — a  quarter  of  an  hour — or  longer  ? 
They  have  never  been  able  to  say,  so  much  did  their  in- 
expressible emotion  paralyze  them  with  terror.  As 
Montfanon  had  foreseen,  the  conditions  of  the  duel  had 
immediately  become  terrible — because  Pietrapertosa, 
who  seemed  to  direct  the  fight,  after  having  measured  a 
rather  long  space — about  fifty  paces — was  now  tracing 
in  the  middle  two  lines  hardly  ten  or  twelve  yards  dis- 
tant from  each  other. 

"  They  have  chosen  the  duel  with  interrupted  steps," 
groaned  the  old  tighter,  whom  his  knowledge  of  the 
field  did  not  deceive.  Dorsenne  and  Gorka,  once 
placed  facing  each  other,  did  begin  to  advance — now 
raising,  now  lowering  their  weapons  with  the  frightful 
slowness  of  two  adversaries  firmly  resolved  not  to  miss 
each  other.  A  first  shot  was  fired.  It  was  that  of  Boles- 
las.  Dorsenne  was  not  touched.  He  still  had  a  few 
steps  to  take  to  reach  the  limit ;  he  took  them  and  stopped 
to  aim  at  the  other  with  such  an  evident  intention  of 
killing  him  that  Cibo  was  distinctly  heard  to  cry  out : 

"  Fire,  for  God's  sake,  fire ! " 

Julien  pulled  the  trigger,  as  though  he  instinctively 
obeyed  this  order,  incorrect,  assuredly,  but  too  natural 
to  be  even  remarked.  The  shot  was  fired,  and  from  the 
three  spectators,  leaning  in  the  window,  came  three  si- 
multaneous exclamations  on  seeing  Gorka's  arm  fall  and 
his  hand  drop  the  pistol,  though  the  man  himself  did 
not  fall. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  cried  the  physician,  "  only  a  broken 
arm.'" 

"  God  has  been  better  to  us  than  we  deserved,"  said 
the  Marquis. 

"  Here  is  that  madman  at  last  at  rest.  Brave  Dor- 
senne," said  Florent,  who  thought  of  his  brother-in-law, 
and  added  gayly,  as  he  leaned  on  Montfanon  and  the 
doctor,  to  reach  the  sofa ;  "  finish  quickly,  doctor  ;  you 
will  soon  be  needed  down-stairs." 


248  COSMOPOLIS. 

IX. 

ALBA    SEES. 

The  physician's  glance  had  diag-nosed  correctly.  Dor- 
senne's  bullet  had  struck  Gorka  above  the  wrist.  Two 
centimetres  more  to  the  right  or  to  the  left  and  Boles- 
las  would  no  doubt  have  been  killed  on  the  spot.  He 
would  get  off  with  a  fracture  of  the  forearm  and  con- 
finement to  his  room  for  a  few  days,  and  then,  a 
few  weeks  of  the  tedium  of  splints.  This  mild  result  was 
the  one  that  this  man,  passionate  to  the  power  of  fury, 
most  abhorred.  When  he  had  been  brought  home  and 
his  own  physician,  summoned  in  all  haste,  had  made  the 
final  dressing,  and  ordered  him  to  stay  in  bed  and  rest 
during  the  first  hours  of  fever,  he  had  a  new  fit  of  impo- 
tent rage  that  went  far  beyond  those  of  that  morning 
and  of  the  previous  night.  All  the  living  portions  of 
his  soul,  the  noblest  as  well  as  the  lowest,  rose  and 
made  him  suffer  far  more  than  his  wounded  arm.  Was  he 
sufficiently  hurt  in  his  pride,  in  that  almost  unwholesome 
though  otherwise  justified  necessity  to  figure  as  an  ex- 
traordinary personage  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  knew 
him  ?  He  had  rushed  from  Warsaw  across  Europe  like  an 
avenger  of  his  betrayed  love,  and  he  had  begun  by  miss- 
ing his  rival.  Instead  of  challenging  him  at  once  in 
the  drawing-room  of  the  Steno  Villa,  he  had  waited  and 
another  had  had  the  time  to  substitute  himself  for  the 
one  whom  he  wished  to  chastise.  This  other  man 
whose  death  would  at  least  have  given  a  tragic  end  to 
this  absurd  adventure,  Boleslas  had  scarcely  grazed. 
He  had  wished  by  striking  Dorsenne  to  execute  at  least 
one  felon  who,  in  his  opinion,  had  trifled  with  the 
most  sacred  of  confidences.  He  had  succeeded  only  in 
giving  this  false  friend  an  opportunity  to  humiliate  him, 
without  counting  that  he  had  made  it  impossible  for 
himself  to  fight  again  before  many  days.     None  of  the 


ALBA   SEES.  249 

persons  who  had  outraged  him  would  be  punished  for  a 
long-  time — ^neither  his  rude  and  cowardly  rival,  nor  his 
perfidious  mistress,  nor  that  monster,  Lydia  Maitland, 
whose  infamy  he  had  just  discovered.  They  were  all 
happy  and  triumphant  on  that  beautiful,  radiant  May 
day,  while  he  groaned  on  a  bed  of  suffering.  This  was 
proved  to  him  that  very  afternoon,  only  too  clearly,  by 
his  two  witnesses,  the  only  visitors  against  whom  his 
door  was  not  closed.  They  came  to  see  him  at  about 
five  o'clock.  They  came  from  the  races  of  Tor  di 
Quinto,  which  had  taken  place  that  day. 

"All  goes  well,"  began  Cibo,  "and  I  answer  for  it 
that  no  one  has  spoken — I  have  already  told  you  that  I 
am  sure  of  my  innkeeper,  and  we  paid  the  witnesses  and 
coachmen  in  consequence." 

"  Were  Mme.  Steno  and  her  daughter  there  ?  "  asked 
Boleslas. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Roman,  too  much  surprised  by 
the  brusqueness  of  this  question  for  his  habitual  diplo- 
macy to  elude  the  answer. 

"  With  whom,"  again  inquired  the  wounded  man. 

"  Why,  aloue,"  replied  Cibo,  this  time  with  a  haste  in 
which  Boleslas  detected  an  intention  to  deceive  him. 

"  And  Mrs.  Maitland  ?  " 

"  She  was  also  there  with  her  husband,"  said  Pietra- 
pertosa,  who  understood  nothing  of  Cibo's  glances, 
"  and  all  Rome  besides."  Then,  preoccupied  only  with 
the  great  news:  "You  know  that  the  marriage  between 
Ardea  and  the  little  Hafner  girl  is  announced  ?  They 
were  all  three  there — ^the  betrothed,  and  the  father,  and 
so  happy!  I  assure  you  it  was  very  nice.  Cardinal 
Guerillot  will  baptize  the  fair  Fanny.    .    .     ." 

"  And  Dorsenne  ?  "  again  questioned  the  sick  man. 

"He  was  walking  about,  attitudinizing  more  than 
ever,"  resumed  Cibo.  "I  shall  amuse  you  by  telling  you 
the  astonishing  answer  he  dared  to  give  us.  We  asked 
him  how  he  had  managed,  he  who  is  so  nervous — you 
have  seen  him  play — to  aim  at  you  as  he  aimed,  without 


250  COSMOPOLIS. 

trembling-.  For  it  is  very  true  that  he  (lid  not  tremble — 
and  g-uess  what  he  answered  me  ?  That  he  remembered 
a  receipt  of  his  friend  Steudbal ;  recite  by  heart  four 
Latin  verses  before  firing".  'And  may  we  know  what 
verses  you  chose  ? '  I  asked  him.  *  Why,  of  course,'  he 
said,  and  he  declaimed;  'Tityre,  tu  iJatulsB  recubans.'" 

"This  is  the  time,  or  never,"  interrupted  Pietraper- 
tosa,  "  to  recall  Casal's  answer  when  that  snob,  Flegon, 
boasted  to  us  at  the  club  of  his  shoe-polish  made  from 
a  receipt  of  the  Prince  of  Wales's  valet.  If  that  young 
man  is  not  laughing'  at  us,  I  pity  him  greatly," 

Although  the  two  admirers  of  the  Parisian  mania  had 
quoted  to  each  other,  more  than  a  hundred  times,  that 
very  indifferent  joke  attributed  to  the  wittiest  man 
about  town  of  to-day,  they  laughed  their  loud  sonorous 
laugh  which  completed  the  enervation  of  the  wounded 
man.  He  gave  as  a  pretext  his  need  of  rest,  sent  away 
these  two  brave  fellows  of  whose  sympathy  he  was  sure, 
whom  he  had  just  proved  loyal  and  devoted,  but  who 
now  caused  him  too  much  pain  by  evoking,  in  answer  to 
his  questions,  the  silhouettes  of  all  his  enemies  smiling 
ironically.  When  we  suffer  a  certain  sort  of  suffering, 
remarks  like  those  naively  exchanged  by  Casal's  two 
Roman  imitators  are  plainly  intolerable.  We  wish  to 
be  alone,  to  feed  in  peace,  on  that  bitter  food,  on  that 
exasperated  and  ineffectual  rancor  against  men  and 
things  with  which  Gorka  now  felt  his  heart  so  full. 
The  presence  of  his  former  mistress  at  the  races,  and  on 
that  afternoon,  ulcerated  him  more  deeply  than  all  the 
rest.  He  did  not  doubt  that  she  knew  through  Mait- 
land,  himself  informed  by  Chapron,  of  the  double  duel 
and  his  wound.  Thus  it  was  on  her  account  that  he 
had  fought,  and  the  same  day  she  went  to  show  herself, 
smile,  coquet,  as  if  two  years  of  passion  had  not  min- 
gled their  existences,  as  if  he  were  for  her  only  a  society 
acquaintance,  a  guest  at  her  dinners  and  balls.  He  knew 
her  habits  so  well,  and  how  eagerly  she  delighted  in  the 
presence  of  the  one  she  loved,  when  she  did  love.     No 


ALBA   SEES.  251 

doubt  she  had  made  an  appointment  on  the  race-track 
with  Maitland,  as  she  had  formerly  made  one  with  him, 
and  the  artist  had  gone,  too,  when  he  had  a  wounded  man 
to  care  for,  that  noble,  courageous  brother-in-law  whom 
he  had  allowed  to  fight  for  him !  The  selfish  and  brutal 
American  was  a  worthy  lover  for  this  vile  creature. 
The  image  of  the  happy  coujile  tortured  the  wounded 
man  with  the  most  poignant  jealousy,  that  which  is 
mingled  with  disgust  by  contrast.  He  thought  of  his 
own  wife,  of  that  proud  and  tender  Maud  whom  he  had 
lost  as  he  had  lost  Catherine  Steno.  He  saw  himself  in 
other  illnesses  with  that  sweet,  that  saintly  nurse  at  the 
foot  of  his  bed.  He  saw  the  sincere  eyes  with  which 
the  wife,  so  abominably  betrayed,  looked  at  him,  the 
gestures  of  her  loyal  hands  who  left  to  none  the  care 
of  ministering  to  his  wants.  To-day,  she  had  let  him 
depart  for  a  combat,  perhaps  a  mortal  one,  without  see- 
ing him  again.  He  had  returned.  She  had  not  even 
inquired  about  his  wound.  The  physician  had  dressed 
it  without  her  being  there,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  her 
save  what  was  told  by  their  son.  He  had  called  for  the 
child  at  a  given  moment.  According  to  the  agreement 
with  his  friends,  he  explained  his  broken  arm  by  a  fall 
on  the  stairs,  and  little  Luke  answered : 

"  But  when  will  you  be  able  to  join  us,  then  ?  Mam- 
ma said  that  we  should  start  for  England  to-night  or 
to-morrow.     The  trunks  are  nearly  packed." 

To-night  or  to-mon-ow  1  Thus  Maud  would  execute 
her  threat.  She  would  go  away  forever,  and  without 
explanation.  He  could  not  even  argue  his  case  once 
more  with  that  woman,  who  would  surely  not  answer  a 
new  appeal,  since  she  had  found  in  her  outraged  pride 
the  strength  to  be  severe,  even  when  he  ran  danger  of 
death.  Before  this  evidence  of  the  crumbling  of  all 
around  him,  Boleslas  suffered  one  of  those  fits  of  pro- 
found, absolute,  irremediable  despair,  in  which,  we 
hope,  we  desire  nothing  beyond  going  to  sleep  forever. 
He  had  reached  the  point  of  asking  himself  vaguely: 


252  ^        COSMOPOLIS. 

"  If  I  made  one  more  attempt,"  and  replying  to  himself, 
"  She  will  not  come,"  when  his  valet  came  to  say  that  the 
Countess  wished  to  speak  to  him.  The  upheaval  of  his 
ideas  was  so  complete  that  he  imagined  for  a  second 
that  it  was  the  Countess  Steno,  and  he  was  almost  terri- 
fied to  see  his  wife  enter.  Certainly  the  emotions  gone 
through  during  these  few  days  and  amid  this  tumult  of 
events,  had  been  very  extreme.  He  had  felt  none  more 
violent,  even  under  Dorsenne's  raised  pistol,  than  on 
seeing  the  figure  of  his  living  remorse  draw  near  his 
bed.  Maud's  face,  that  fresh  young  face,  usually  radi- 
ant with  the  beauty  of  blood  incessantly  renewed  by  the 
English  habit  of  open  air  and  dail}'^  exercise,  showed  un- 
deniable traces  of  tears,  sorrow,  and  insomnia.  The  pal- 
lor of  the  cheeks,  the  darkened  eyelids,  the  dry  and 
bitterly  compressed  lips,  the  fever  in  her  eyes,  told  more 
eloquently  than  words,  the  terrible  shock  of  which  this 
well-balanced  creature  was  the  victim.  These  twentj'^- 
four  hours  had  acted  on  her  like  certain  long  illnesses,  in 
which  it  seems  that  the  very  essence  of  the  organism  is 
altered.  She  was  another  person.  The  rapidity  of  trag- 
ical and  startling  metamorphosis  made  Boleslas  forget 
his  own  anguish.  He  felt  only  an  immense  regret  which 
changed  into  dismay,  when  this  woman,  so  visibly  con- 
sumed with  grief,  had  seated  herself,  and  he  found  once 
more  in  her  eyes,  despite  the  fever,  that  look  of  cold 
implacability  before  which  he  had  humbly  recoiled  the 
day  before.  However,  she  was  there,  and  even  in  these 
sinister  conditions,  that  unhoped-for  presence  had  for 
the  young  man  an  infinite  sweetness,  and  he  said  it  with 
the  subtle  and  half  childish  grace  he  knew  how  to  as- 
sume when  he  wished  to  please  : 

"  You  understood  that  it  would  be  too  cruel  in  you  to 
go  away  without  having  seen  me  again.  I  would  not 
have  dared  to  ask  it,  and  yet  it  is  the  only  joy  I  could 
have.    Thank  you  for  having  given  it  to  me." 

"  Don't  thank  me,"  interrupted  Maud,  shaking  her 
head  ;  "  it  is  not  for  your  sake  that  I  am  here.    It  is  for 


ALBA   SEES.  263 

duty.  Let  me  speak,"  she  insisted,  arresting  with  a 
gesture  the  wounded  man's  reply;  "you  will  answer 
afterward.  If  you  and  I  alone  were  in  question,  I  repeat 
it,  I  would  not  have  seen  you.  But,  as  I  told  you  yes- 
terday, I  have  a  son." 

"  All ! "  sorrowfully  cried  Boleslas,  "  you  have  come  to 
pain  me  still  more,  yet  you  should  have  thought  that  I 
am  in  no  condition  to  discuss  such  a  cruel  question  with 
you.  I  thought  I,  too,  had  told  you  that  I  would  not 
disregard  your  rights,  on  condition  that  you  would  not 
disregard  mine." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  my  rights  nor  of  yours,"  in- 
terrupted Maud :  "  his,  and  his  alone,  count.  When  I 
left  you  yesterday  I  suffered  too  much  to  feel  anything 
beyond  my  grief.  It  was  then,  in  that  agony,  that  I  re- 
membered a  word  that  my  father  quoted :  '  When  we 
suffer  we  must  look  our  sorrow  in  the  face ;  it  always 
teaches  us  something.'  I  was  ashamed  of  my  weakness, 
and  I  did  look  that  sorrow  in  the  face.  It  taught  me 
first  to  accept  it  as  a  just  punishment  for  having  wished 
to  marry  against  the  ideas  and  advice  of  that  poor 
father." 

"  Ah,  do  not  disown  our  past,"  cried  the  young  man, 
"  that  past  that  has  remained  dear  to  me  through  every- 
thing." 

"  No,  I  do  not  disown  it,"  replied  Maud,  "  because  it  is 
in  going  back  to  it,  in  bringing  back  my  impressions  of 
that  time,  that  I  have  been  able  to  find,  not  an  excuse, 
but  an  explanation  for  your  conduct.  I  remembered 
what  you  had  told  me  of  the  misfortunes  of  your  child- 
hood and  your  youth,  and  how  you  had  grown  up  be- 
tween your  father  and  your  mother,  not  wishing,  not 
being  able  to  judge  either  the  one  or  the  other,  obliged 
to  conceal  from  the  one,  your,  feelings  for  the  other.  I 
understood  for  the  first  time,  that  this  separation  of 
your  parents  at  that  period  had  given  you  great  pain. 
That  is  what  warped  your  character.  And  I  read,  in  ad- 
vance, Luke's  story  in  your  own.    Listen,  Boleslas,  I  am 


254  COSMOPOLIS. 

speaking  to  you  as  I  would  speak  before  God.  Wlien  this 
thought  presented  itself  to  my  mind,  my  first  impulse  was 
not  to  resume  life  with  you.  That  life  would  henceforth 
be  too  cruel  for  me.  Now,  I  said,  I  shall  have  my  son  for 
mj^self  alone.  He  will  feel  only  my  influence.  I  had 
reached  that  point  this  morning,  when  I  saw  you  go — go 
and  inflict  that  again  upon  me.  Sacrifice  me  once  more. 
If  you  had  really  repented,  would  you  not  have  spared 
me  this  last  affront?  And  then  when  you  returned, 
when  they  came  and  told  me  that  you  had  a  broken  aim, 
I  wished  to  tell  the  child  of  your  illness  myself.  I  saw 
how  much  he  loved  you;  I  measured  the  place  you 
already  occupied  in  his  heart,  and  I  understood  that 
even  if  the  law  gave  him  to  me,  as  I  know  it  would,  his 
childhood  would  still  be  like  your  childhood,  his  youth 
like  your  youth.  And  then,"  she  continued,  in  a  tone  in 
which  emotion  quivered  through  the  pride,  "  since  you 
speak  of  right,  I  did  not  recognize  as  mine  that  of 
blighting  the  tender  respect,  the  worship  he  has  for  you, 
and  I  have  come  to  say  to  you:  You  have  injured 
me  greatly,  you  have  killed  in  me  something  that  will 
never  be  born  again.  I  know  that  I  shall  carry  for  years, 
on  my  mind  and  in  my  heart,  a  weight  at  the  thought 
that  you  could  have  betrayed  me  as  you  have.  But 
I  also  feel  that  this  separation  on  which  I  was  deter- 
mined is  too  perilous  for  our  son.  I  feel  that  I  shall 
find,  in  the  certainty  of  a  danger  from  which  he  should 
be  protected,  the  strength  to  continue  our  life  in  com- 
mon, and  I  shall  continue  it.  But  human  nature  is 
human  nature,  and  I  can  only  have  this  strength  on  one 
condition." 

"  Which  one  ?  "  said  Boleslas.  Maud's  speech — for  it 
was  a  composed  speech,  every  phrase  of  which  must 
have  been  carefully  weighed  by  that  scrupulous  con- 
science— contrasted  too  much,  by  its  calm  lucidity,  with 
the  state  of  nervous  excitement  in  which  he  had  lived 
for  several  days.  He  had  been  more  really  pained  by 
it  than  he  would  have  been  by  passionate  reproaches. 


ALBA   SEES.  255 

Certain  phrases,  the  one,  for  instance,  in  which  she 
spoke  of  his  falsity  of  character,  touched  him  in  the 
most  sensitive  part  of  his  pride,  as  we  are  touched  by 
those  truths  which  we  do  not  confess,  but  which  we 
know  to  be  only  too  true.  At  the  same  time,  he  had 
been  touched  by  the  memory  of  his  son's  tenderness, 
and  he  had  felt  that  if  he  did  not  reconcile  himself  with 
Maud  at  that  moment,  his  domestic  life  was  gone  for- 
ever. There  was  a  little  of  all  this  in  the  few  words  that 
followed  his  question :  "  Yes,  which  one  1  Althoug-h 
you  have  spoken  to  me  very  harshly,  and  you  might 
have  said  the  same  things  in  other  words ;  though  it  is, 
above  all,  very  bitter  to  me  that  you  should  condemn 
my  whole  character  on  a  single  frailty,  I  love  you,  I 
love  my  son,  and  I  agree  beforehand  to  all  your  condi- 
tions. I  esteem  your  character  too  highly  to  doubt 
that  they  will  be  compatible  with  my  dignity.  As  to 
this  morning's  duel,"  he  added,  "  you  know  well  that  it 
was  too  late  to  retire  without  dishonor." 

"  I  should  first  like  to  have  your  promise,"  said  Mme. 
Gorka,  who  did  not  reply  to  these  last  words, "  that  dur- 
ing the  whole  time  that  you  are  confined  to  your  room, 
your  door,  like  mine,  may  be  closed.  I  could  not  endure 
that  creature  in  my  house,  nor  anyone  who  would  speak 
of  her  to  you  or  to  me." 

"  I  promise  that,"  said  the  young  man,  whose  heart 
was  flooded  with  warmth  at  this  first  proof  that  jeal- 
ousy was  alive  beneath  the  wife's  rancor,  and  he  add- 
ed, smiling  :  "  That  will  be  no  great  sacrifice.  What 
next  ?  " 

"  What  next  ?  So  soon  as  the  physician  will  permit 
it,  we  must  go  to  my  country.  We  shall  leave  orders 
to  have  everything  removed  during  our  absence.  We 
will  settle  next  winter,  wherever  you  choose,  but  never 
more  in  this  house,  never  more  in  this  city." 

"  That  is  also  promised,"  said  Boleslas,  "  and  neither 
is  that  a  sacrifice.    What  next  ?  " 

"  What  next  ? "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  though 


25G  COSMOPOLIS. 

ashamed  of  herself.  "  You  must  never  write  to  her  ;  you 
must  never  try  to  know  what  has  become  of  her." 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word,"  replied  Boleslas,  taking  her 
hand  with  insistance  ;  "  and  what  next  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  *  next,'  "  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand, 
but  gently.  And  she  began  to  fulfil  her  promise  of 
forgiveness  by  rearranging  under  the  wounded  man's 
head  the  pillow  which  had  been  disturbed,  while  he  re- 
sumed : 

"Yes,  my  noble  Maud,  there  is  something  next. 
There  is  that  I  shall  prove  how  truly  I  spoke  yesterday, 
when  I  assured  you  that  I  loved  you  in  spite  of  my 
faults.  It  is  the  mother  who  comes  back  to  me  to-day. 
But  I  want  my  wife,  my  dear  wife,  and  I  shall  win  her 
back." 

She  did  not  reply.  Seeing  him  utter  these  last  words, 
with  a  transfigured  expression,  she  felt  an  emotion 
which  was  never  to  leave  her.  As  the  result  of  her  grief, 
she  had  acquired  too  deep  an  intuition  in  regard  to  her 
husband's  nature,  and  that  suppleness  of  the  Slav,  which 
formerly  charmed  while  it  alarmed  her,  now  inspired 
her  with  horror.  This  man  with  the  fickle  and  pliant 
conscience,  had  already  forgiven  himself.  It  was  suffi- 
cient for  him  to  have  conceived  this  project  of  a  sep- 
aration of  long  years,  to  assume  in  thought  the  charac- 
ter of  that  great  duty,  to  esteem  himself  as  if  he  had 
really  sufficed  for  that  difficult  task.  At  least,  during 
the  eight  days  which  separated  that  conversation  from 
the  day  of  their  departure,  he  strictly  kept  the  word  he 
had  given  his  wife.  In  vain  did  Cibo,  Pietrapertosa, 
Hafner,  Ardea — attempt  to  reach  him.  And  when  the 
train,  which  carried  them  away  in  the  direction  of  Flor- 
ence and  of  the  North,  started,  he  could  ask  his  wife 
with  a  pride,  this  time  justified  by  the  facts : 

"  Are  you  pleased  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  pleased  that  we  have  left  Eome,"  she  answered, 
evasively.  And  this  was  twice  true ;  first,  because  she 
had  no  illusions  about  this  return  of  moral  energy,  of 


ALBA    SEES.  257 

which  Boleslas  was  so  proud.  She  knew  that  this  unsta- 
ble will  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  sensation.  Then, 
what  she  did  not  confess  to  her  husband,  was  that  the 
grief  of  a  broken  friendship  was  added  within  her  to  the 
grief  of  the  betrayed  wife.  The  sudden  discovery  of 
the  infamies  of  Alba's  mother  had  not  killed  within  her 
that  strong-  affection  for  the  young  girl,  and,  during  all 
that  week,  busied  with  the  preparations  for  a  final 
departure,  she  had  not  ceased  to  have  in  her  heart  the 
prick  of  that  uneasiness  :  "  Wliat  does  she  think  of  my 
silence  ?  What  has  her  mother  told  her  ?  AVhat  has 
she  understood  ? "  She  had  not  once  left  the  house 
without  asking  herself :  "  If  I  were  to  meet  her  ?  "  She 
received  no  letters  without  dreading  to  see,  on  an  en- 
velope, Alba's  handwriting,  that  irregular  and  nervous 
handwriting  in  which  could  be  guessed  the  latent  lack 
of  purpose  of  that  strange  child.  She  had  so  dearly 
cherished, "  the  poor  little  soul,"  as  she  called  the  Contes- 
sina  with  a  pretty  English  phrase.  She  had  for  her  that 
peculiar  friendship  of  young  women  for  young  girls.  A 
very  strong  and  very  delicate  sentiment,  which,  with  its 
shade  of  tenderness,  resembles  the  devotion  of  an  elder 
sister  for  a  younger  one.  There  enters  into  it  a  little 
naive  protection  and  also  a  little  sentimental  and  grace- 
ful melancholy.  The  elder  friend  is  severe  and  scold- 
ing. She  tries  to  moderate  while  enjoying  the  exces- 
sive enthusiasms  of  the  younger  friend.  She  receives 
and  invites  confidences  with  the  touching  gravity  of  a 
counsellor  whose  experience  itself  needs  counsel.  The 
younger  friend  is  curious  and  admiring.  She  shows 
herself  in  all  the  truth  of  that  graceful  awakening  of 
ideas  and  emotions  which  accompanies  the  years  before 
marriage.  When  there  is,  as  was  the  case  with  Alba 
Steno,  a  certain  discord  of  soul  existing  between  that 
younger  friend  and  her  mother — this  tenderness  for  the 
adopted  sister  becomes  so  profound  that  it  cannot  be 
broken  without  a  heart-break  on  both  sides.  This  was 
why,  in  leaving  Rome,  the  faithful  and  noble  Maud  felt 


268  COSMOPOLIS. 

at  the  same  time  relief  and  a  sorrow.  Relief,  because 
she  was  no  longer  exposed  to  an  explapation  with  Alba ; 
sorrow,  because  it  was  so  bitter  for  her  to  think  that 
never  should  she  be  able  to  justify  herself  to  her  friend, 
never  help  her  to  evade  the  difficulties  of  life ;  finally, 
never  love  her  openly,  as  she  loved  her  secretly.  And 
she  said  to  herself  as  she  watched  the  city  with  its  rows 
of  lights  disappear  far  into  the  night : 

"  Let  her  misjudge  me,  but  never  let  her  guess  any- 
thing.  Who  will  now  prevent  her  from  yielding  to  her 
feeling  for  that  dangerous  and  perfidious  Dorsenne? 
Who  will  console  her  when  she  is  sad  ?  I  was  perhaps 
wrong  to  write  as  I  did  to  that  woman,  a  letter  which 
was  handed  to  her  before  her  daughter.  Ah  !  Poor  lit- 
tle sotil !    May  God  watch  over  you ! " 

She  then  turned  to  her  son,  whose  hair  she  stroked, 
as  if  to  drive  away  by  the  evidence  of  present  duty,  this 
homesickness  which  had  just  invaded  her  at  the  thought 
of  an  affection  sacrificed  forever.  Hers  was  a  nature 
too  active,  too  accustomed  to  that  British  virtue  of  self- 
control,  to  find  pleasure  in  the  languor  of  vain  emotions. 
And  yet  even  to-day,  and  after  months  and  months  have 
passed  over  the  sinister  event  which  followed  so  closely 
on  that  departure,  she  cannot  help  a  little  chill  when  she 
remembers  the  intuition  that  came  to  her  in  that  silent 
corner  of  a  rapid  train,  of  a  catastrophe  suspended  over 
that  innocent  Alba.  The  two  persons  of  whom  her  now 
powerless  friendship  had  thought,  were  for  diverse  rea- 
sons the  two  fatal  instruments  of  the  "  poor  little  soul's  " 
fate,  and  the  obscure  remorse  felt  by  Maud  herself,  after 
the  terrible  note  given  to  Mme.  Steno  before  the  young 
girl,  was  also  only  too  just.  When  the  servant  had  given 
this  letter  to  the  Countess,  saying  that  Mme.  Gorka 
begged  to  be  excused  on  account  of  illness.  Alba  Steno's 
first  movement  had  been  to  pass  into  her  friend's  room. 

"  I  am  going  to  kiss  her,  and  see  if  she  needs  any- 
thing," she  said. 

*'  But  the  Countess  wishes  to  see  absolutely  no  one," 


ALBA  SEES.  269 

replied  the  valet  with  embarrassment,  and  at  the  same 
moment  Mme.  Steno,  who  had  just  opened  the  note  said, 
in  a  voice  which  startled  the  young-  girl  by  its  altera- 
tion: 

"  Let  us  go.  I,  too,  am  not  feeling  well." 
This  woman,  so  haughty,  so  accustomed  to  bend  every- 
thing before  her  will,  had  quivered  painfuUj'^  under  the 
atrocious  insult  of  the  words  which  drove  her,  Cathe- 
rine Steno,  out  of  the  house  with  ignominy.  She  had 
turned  pale  even  to  the  roots  of  her  beautiful  blonde 
hair ;  her  countenance  had  changed,  and,  for  the  first 
and  last  time,  Alba  saw  her  whole  body  tremble.  This 
was  but  the  aifair  of  an  instant ;  even  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  energy  had  resumed  sway  in  that  courageous 
character,  so  well  made  for  the  shocks  of  strong  emotions 
and  the  instantaneous  right-about-face  of  action.  But, 
however  rapid  this  passage  had  been,  it  had  sufficed  to 
agitate  the  young  girl.  Not  one  instant  did  she  doubt 
that  the  note  was  the  cause  of  that  extraordinary  meta- 
morphosis in  the  aspect  and  attitude  of  the  Countess. 
The  fact  that  Maud,  her  friend,  would  not  receive  her  in 
her  room,  was  no  less  extraordinary.  What  was  taking 
place  ?  What  did  that  letter  contain  ?  WTiat  did  they 
conceal  from  her  ?  If,  the  day  before,  she  had  had  the 
sensation  of  a  needle  through  her  heart,  from  suspecting 
a  scene  of  violent  explanation  between  her  mother  and 
Boleslas  Gorka,  how  could  she  help  being  uneasy  to  the 
point  of  anguish  on  seeing  the  condition  in  which  her 
mother  had  been  thrown  by  a  few  lines  from  Gorka's 
wife  ?  The  anonymous  denunciation  returned  to  her 
mind,  and  with  it  all  the  suspicions  she  had  for  months 
vainly  rejected.  Certain  hypotheses  sometimes  adapt 
themselves  so  exactly  to  certain  facts,  that  to  conceive 
them  is  to  admit  them.  The  one  which  immediately 
shot  through  Alba's  mind  was,  alas !  of  that  sort.  She 
thought  that  some  chance,  perhaps  the  infamy  of  a  sim- 
ilar denunciation,  had  enlightened  Maud  on  the  relations 
between  Mme.  Steno  and  Boleslas,  and  that  this  was  the 


260  COSMOPOLIS. 

secret  of  the  terror  which  the  note  had  caused  the  Coun- 
tess. Although  the  latter  was  ignorant  that  for  many 
months  a  moral  drama,  of  which  this  scene  formed  a 
decisive  episode,  was  being  enacted  within  her  daughter, 
she  was  too  clever  not  to  understand  that  her  emotion 
had  been  very  imprudent,  and  that  she  must  explain  it. 
Besides,  the  breach  with  Maud  was  irreparable,  and 
Alba  must  share  it.  This  mother,  at  once  so  guilty  and 
so  devoted,  so  blind  and  so  cautious,  had  no  sooner  seen 
this  necessity  than  her  decision  was  taken  and  a  false 
explanation  invented : 

"  Guess  what  Maud  has  just  written  to  me  ?  "  she  sud- 
denly said  to  her  daughter  when  they  were  seated  side 
by  side  in  their  carriage.  God !  What  balm  did  this 
simple  phrase  put  into  Alba's  heart.  Her  mother  was 
going  to  show  her  the  note !  This  joy  was  not  long. 
The  note  remained  where  the  Countess,  after  having 
nervously  folded  it,  had  slipped  it  in  the  opening  of  her 
glove.  And  she  continued :  "  She  accuses  me  of  being 
the  cause  of  a  duel  between  her  husband  and  Florent 
Chapron,  and  she  quarrels  with  me  by  letter,  without 
having  seen  me,  without  having  spoken  to  me." 

"  Boleslas  Gorka  is  to  fight  a  duel  with  Florent  Chap- 
ron 1 "  repeated  the  young  girl. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother.  "  I  knew  it  through  Hafner. 
I  said  nothing  about  it  to  j'ou,  that  you  should  not 
worry  on  Maud's  account,  and  I  waited  for  her  so  long 
to  give  her  courage,  in  case  I  should  find  her  too  uneasy. 
And  this  is  the  way  in  which  she  rewards  my  friendship. 
It  seems  that  Gorka  became  offended  at  something  that 
Chapron  said  about  the  Poles,  one  of  those  innocent  and 
stupid  things  such  as  are  said  every  day  about  different 
nations,  about  us  Italians,  the  French,  the  English,  the 
Germans,  the  Jews,  and  which  mean  nothing.  I  repeated 
the  thing  to  Gorka  as  a  joke.  Now  judge,  is  it  my  fault 
if  instead  of  laughing,  the  man  went  and  insulted  that 
poor  Florent,  and  if  this  absurd  meeting  is  the  result  ? 
And  Maud,  who  writes  to  me  that  she  will  never  forgive 


ALU  A   SEES.  261 

me,  that  I  am  a  bad  friend,  that  I  did  it  on  purpose  to 
exasperate  her  husband !  Eh !  let  her  watch  her  hus- 
band ;  let  her  lock  him  up,  if  he  be  crazy !  And  I  who 
received  them  as  I  did,  I  who  made  their  position  in 
Rome,  I  who  only  thou<^ht  of  her  just  now !  You  hear," 
she  added,  pressing-  her  daughter's  hand  with  a  fury 
that  was  at  least  true,  if  her  words  were  false.  "  I  for- 
bid you  ever  to  see  her  again  or  write  to  her.  If  she 
sends  me  no  aiiology  for  her  unqualified  note,  I  no 
longer  wish  to  know  her.  One  is  too  much  of  a  dupe  to 
be  so  good ! " 

Listening  to  this  tale.  Alba  for  the  first  time  felt  the 
certainty  that  her  mother  was  imposing  on  her.  Since 
suspicion  had  entered  her  mind  with  reference  to  her 
mother,  until  then  the  object  of  a  unique  admiration  and 
tenderness,  she  had  jDassed  through  many  attacks  of 
distrust.  But  talking  with  the  Countess  had  always  dis- 
sipated them.  This  was  because  Mme.  Steno,  except 
under  her  amorous  vagaries,  was  of  a  frank  and  truthful 
nature.  You  could  not  live  in  her  atmosphere  without 
the  impression  that  she  was  the  least  dissembling  of 
women.  Her  habitual  audacity  and  the  sort  of  serenity 
which  she  displayed  in  pursuing  her  passions,  gave  her, 
even  under  the  necessary  trickeries,  that  aristocratic 
repose  of  manner  which  commands  belief  as  if  by  mag- 
netism. Besides,  she  spoke  untruths  only  at  the  last 
extremity.  Her  dislike  for  littlenesses  made  her  prefer 
silence,  which  is  indeed  the  surest  way  to  deceive.  When 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  extricate 
herself  from  some  difficulty  by  a  positive  falsehood,  she 
always  took  care  to  invent  one  that  was  simple  and 
near  the  i.ruth,  as  was  the  one  she  had  just  formulated. 
It  was  in  fact  a  mania  of  that  good  Florent's  to  quote, 
incessantly,  readj'^-made  witticisms,  full  of  national  epi- 
grams as  poor  as  they  were  wicked.  Alba  could  remem- 
ber not  one,  but  twenty  occasions  in  which  this  excellent 
man  had  made  easy  jokes  at  which  a  sensitive  temper 
might  well  take  ofience.     There  was  therefore  no  actual 


262  COSMOPOLIS. 

impossibility  that  a  meeting-  between  Gorka  and  Chap- 
ron  should  be  broucfht  about  by  an  incident  of  that 
nature.  But  Chapron  was  the  brother-in-law  of  Mait- 
land,  of  that  new  friend  with  whom  Mme,  Steno  had 
become  infatuated  during  the  absence  of  the  Polish 
count — and  what  a  brother-in-law  ? — the  one  about 
whom  Dorsenne  said:  "He  would  burn  Rome  to  cook 
an  egg  for  his  sister's  husband ! "  When  Mme.  Steno 
had  announced  this  duel  to  her  daughter,  a  certain 
and  immediate  inference  struck  the  poor  child  :  Flo- 
rent  is  fig-hting  for  his  brother-in-law !  And  on  whose 
account,  if  not  Mme.  Steno's  ?  This  idea,  however,  could 
not  have  held  for  a  second  after  the  Countess's  very 
plausible  explanation,  if  Alba  had  not  had,  in  her  heart, 
a  proof,  only  too  certain,  that  her  mother  was  not  speak- 
ing the  truth.  The  young  girl  loved  Maud  Gorka  as 
she  was  loved  by  her.  She  knew  the  tenderness  of  that 
faithful  and  delicate  friend,  as  that  friend  knew  her. 
For  Maud  to  write  to  her  mother  a  letter  that  necessi- 
tated an  immediate  breach,  she  must  have  had  a  reason 
so  great  that  it  was  terrible.  Another  actual  proof  was 
immediately  added  to  this  hypothesis.  Given  the  char- 
acter of  the  Countess  and  her  habits,  if  she  had  not 
shown  this  letter  of  Maud's  to  her  daughter,  there  on 
the  spot,  it  was  because  this  letter  could  not  be  shown. 
Vainly  did  Alba  reproach  herself  for  this  new  spasm  of 
doubt.  Vainly  did  she  try  to  persuade  herself  that  in 
the  evening,  on  the  morrow,  or  the  next  day,  she,  too, 
would  receive  from  her  friend  a  note,  supporting  the 
explanation  given  by  her  mother.  What  she  learned  the 
next  day  was  the  scene  of  the  duel  told  by  Maitland  to 
Mme.  Steno ;  Gorka's  savage  attack  upon  Dorsenne ;  the 
latter's  coolness,  and  the  comparatively  harmless  issue 
of  the  double  meeting. 

"You  see,"  said  her  mother  to  her,  "that  I  was  right 
to  think  that  Gorka  is  insane.  It  seems  he  had  an  ac- 
cess of  rage  after  that  duel,  wounded  as  he  was,  and  he 
is  closely  watched  and  allowed  to  see  no  one.    Do  you 


ALBA  SEES.  263 

now  understand  how  Maud  could  hold  me  responsible 
for  a  lit  of  insanity  which  is,  it  seems,  hereditary  in  the 
Gorka  family  ?  " 

This  was  in  fact  the  fable  that  the  Venetian  and  her 
friends  Hafner,  Ardea,  and  others  spread  everywhere  in 
Rome,  to  lessen  the  scandal.  This  accusation  of  mad- 
ness is  a  rather  common  proceeding  with  women  who 
have  exasperated  a  man  to  a  paroxysm,  when  they  wish 
to  take  away  all  importance  from  his  acts  and  words. 
In  the  present  case  Boleslas's  frenzy  and  his  two  duels, 
with  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  interval,  without  anyone's 
being  able  to  discern  the  true  motive  of  his  anger,  first 
against  Florent  Chapron,  then  against  Dorsenue,  justi- 
fied only  too  well  this  calumny.  When  it  was  known 
throughout  the  city  that  the  Doria  Palace  was  closed, 
that  Maud  Gorka  no  longer  received  anyone,  finally,  that 
she  was  taking  her  husband  away  in  this  mode  which 
resembled  flight,  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  that 
the  young  man's  reason  was  shipwrecked.  They 
thought  no  more  of  Mme.  Steno  and  her  intrigue  with 
the  young  man,  save  to  pity  her  for  the  danger  she 
would  have  run  had  this  insanity  declared  itself  in  her 
house.  In  return,  public  opinion  was  very  severe  upon 
those  witnesses  who  had,  in  spite  of  this  declared  mad- 
ness, consented  to  the  irregularity  of  that  double  meet- 
ing. There  was  a  tumult  of  discussion,  so  violent  that 
the  authorities  came  very  near  interfering,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  the  high  influence  of  one  of  Pietrapertosa's 
relatives,  who  occupied  a  chief  place  in  the  present 
cabinet,  the  heroes  of  this  adventure  would  have  been 
summoned  to  appear  in  court.  In  the  meantime  they 
were  the  topic  of  all  conversation,  so  much  so  that 
Ardea's  astonishing  betrothal,  Fanny  Hafner's  baptism, 
the  repurchase  of  the  Castagna  Palace — all  these  events, 
much  more  important  in  themselves  to  Roman  society, 
were  considered  secondary.  Two  persons  profited  by 
these  reports,  whose  origin  remained  unknown  through 
the  precautions  taken  by  the  patient  Cibo.    One  was  the 


264  COSMOPOLIS. 

innkeeper  of  the  Tempo  Perso,  whose  simi)le  hcitola  be- 
came for  many  days  a  place  of  pilgrimage,  and  who  sold 
a  hitherto  unknown  number  of  flasks  of  Albanian  wine 
and  baskets  of  new-laid  eggs.  The  other  was  Dor- 
senne's  publishers,  from  whom  the  booksellers  of  Rome 
ordered  several  hundred  volumes. 

"  Had  I  had  this  affair  in  Paris,"  said  the  author  to 
Mdlle.  Steno,  as  he  related  to  her  this  unforeseen  result, 
"  I  should  perhaps  have  known  the  intoxication  of  the 
thirtieth  thousand." 

It  was  within  a  few  days  following  the  departure  of 
the  Gorkas  that  he  was  thus  jesting,  after  a  dinner  of 
twenty-four  covers  given  at  the  Steno  villa  in  honor  of 
Peppino  Ardea  and  Fanny  Hafner.  Having  been  rein- 
stalled in  the  good  graces  of  the  Countess  since  his 
duel,  he  had  once  more  become  one  of  the  habitues  of 
the  house,  and  he  was  all  the  more  assiduous  since 
Alba's  daily  increasing  melancholy  interested  him  more 
and  more.  The  enigma  of  this  young  girl's  character 
redoubled  this  interest  at  every  visit,  so  much  so  that  in 
spite  of  the  heat  of  the  dangerous  Roman  summer,  al- 
ready begun,  he  invariably  postponed  to  the  next  day 
his  return  to  Paris,  invariably  announced.  What  had 
she  guessed  from  the  recital  of  that  meeting,  the  account 
of  which  she  had  asked  with  a  scarcely  concealed  emo- 
tion in  her  eyes,  so  blue,  so  clear,  so  transparent,  at  the 
same  time  as  impenetrable  as  certain  lakes  at  the 
foot  of  the  glaciers  in  the  Alps  ?  He  thought  he  did 
well  to  corroborate  with  all  his  might  that  legend  of 
Boleslas  Gorka's  insanity,  which  he,  better  than  any, 
knew  to  be  so  untrue.  But  was  it  not  the  surest  way  of 
putting  Mme.  Steno  out  of  the  case  ?  In  the  course  of 
his  narrative,  why  had  he  seen  those  beautiful  pale  eyes 
of  Alba  veiled  with  a  more  inexplicable  sadness,  as  if  he 
had  struck  her  another  blow  ?  He  did  not  realize  that 
since  the  day  when  the  word  "insanity"  had  been 
uttered  before  her  with  reference  to  Maud's  husband, 
the  Contessina  was  the  victim  of  a  reasoning  as  simple  as 


ALBA   SEES.  265 

it  was  irrefutable  :  "  If  Boleslas  be  mad,  as  all  agree  in 
saying,  why  does  Maud,  wlio  is  so  just  and  who  loves 
me  so,  attribute  to  my  mother  the  responsibility  of  this 
duel,  even  to  the  point  of  quarrelling  with  me,  too,  and 
going  away  without  a  line  of  explanation  ?  No.  There 
is  something  else."  To  understand  the  nature  of  this 
"  something  else,"  the  young  girl  had  but  to  remember 
her  mother's  face  as  she  read  Maud's  letter.  Since  this 
scene  had  taken  i^lace,  ten  days  before,  she  always  saw 
that  face,  and  the  dismay  written  on  those  features, 
usually  so  calm,  so  haughty.  Ah !  poor  little  soul,  in- 
deed, who  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  the  thought : 
"  My  mother  is  not  a  good  woman ;  "  a  thought  all  the 
more  frightful  since  Alba  no  longer  had  the  ignorance, 
though  she  still  had  the  innocence,  of  a  young  girl.  Ac- 
customed to  the  sometimes  very  broad  conversations  of 
her  mother's  drawing-room,  enlightened  by  the  reading 
of  chance  novels,  the  words  "  lover  "  and  "  mistress  "  had 
for  her  a  meaning  sufficiently  precise  to  inflict  an  al- 
most intolerable  suffering  when  applied  to  the  intimacy 
of  her  mother,  first  with  Gorka  and  then  with  Maitland. 
This  martyrdom  she  had  endured  during  the  whole  of 
that  dinner,  at  the  end  of  which  Dorsenne  was  trying  to 
chat  gayly  with  her.  She  had  found  herself  at  table  be- 
side the  artist.  The  breath  of  this  man,  his  gestures, 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  his  manner  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing, finally,  his  near  presence,  had  caused  her  such  acute 
suffering,  that  she  had  found  it  impossible  to  take  any- 
thing save  tumblers  of  ice-water  to  keep  from  faint- 
ing. On  several  occasions,  during  the  course  of  that 
cruel  dinner,  prolonged  amid  the  mingled  glitter  of 
sumptuous  plate,  magnificent  Venetian  crystal,  the  deli- 
cacy of  flowers  and  the  flash  of  jewels,  she  had  detected 
Maitland's  glance  fixed  on  her  mother  with  an  expres- 
sion which  made  her  long  to  cry  out  with  pain,  so 
instinctively  did  she  feel  its  passionateness,  while  at 
one  moment  she  thought  she  saw  her  mother  respond. 
She  had  then  felt  with  horrible  clearness  what  sh« 


266  COSMOPOLIS. 

usually  felt  in  a  confused  way — the  character  of  that 
mother's  beauty.  With  pearls  in  her  blonde  hair,  her 
throat  and  arms  bare,  in  a  dress  the  pale  green  of  which 
showed  off  the  incomparable  splendor  of  her  skin,  her 
dewy  lips,  her  voluptuous  eyes  under  their  long-  eyelids, 
the  Dogaressa  appeared  in  the  centre  of  the  table  at  once 
like  an  empress  and  a  courtesan.  She  resembled  that 
light  Queen  of  Cyprus,  painted  by  Titian  with  a  fierce 
brush,  Caterina  Cornaro,  whose  name  she  fitly  bore. 
For  years  Alba  had  been  so  proud  of  the  halo  of  fasci- 
nation environing  the  Countess,  so  proud  of  those 
statuesque  arms,  of  that  superb  carriage,  of  that  face 
which  defied  time,  of  that  flower  of  life  which  made  so 
glorious  a  creature.  During  this  dinner  she  had  been 
almost  ashamed  of  her.  She  had  also  been  troubled  by 
the  sight  of  Mrs.  Maitland,  a  few  seats  farther  on,  with 
brow  and  eyes,  mouth  and  cheeks  compressed  and 
knotted  with  suffering.  She  thought:  "Does  Lydia 
also  suspect  them?"  Yet,  was  it  possible  that  her 
mother,  so  generous,  so  magnanimous,  so  good,  could 
wear  that  smile  of  sovereign  tranquillity  with  such 
secrets  in  her  heart  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she  could 
have  betrayed  Maud  during  month  after  month,  and 
kept  that  steady  light  of  joy  in  her  eyes  ■? — and  when, 
to  drive  away  this  monstrous  suspicion  which  crushed 
her  like  remorse.  Alba  looked  around  the  long  table, 
she  saw  Peppino  and  the  charming  Fanny  side  by  side, 
and  a  little  farther  the  Baron,  pluming  himself  with  his 
bands  of  decorations.  More  faces,  more  falsehood. 
The  Prince  smiled  on  his  betrothed  as  if  he  loved  her, 
and,  after  having  ignobly  struggled  for  months  to  bring 
himself  to  this  mesalliance,  was  marrying  her  to  pay  with 
money  which  he  knew  to  be  stolen,  debts  incurred  to  keep 
up  a  life  both  foolish  and  fast.  Her  father,  too,  smiled 
tenderly  on  his  daughter,  whom  he  was  selling  through 
vanity.  Such  were  the  sad  reflections  whose  shadows 
Dorsenne  had  seen  hovering  round  the  lips  and  in  the 
eyes  of  his  little  friend,  knowing  nothing  except  that 


ALBA  SEES.  267 

they  were  shadows.  He  tried  to  amuse  her  after  dinner, 
when  the  coffee  was  served  and  the  hubbub  of  conversa- 
tion gave  them  a  little  dual  solitude  in  a  corner  of  the 
hall  already  filled  with  people. 

"  Come,"  he  suddenly  interrupted  in  the  middle  of  a 
speech  in  which  he  had  already  given  two  or  three  an- 
ecdotes from  the  literary  shop  in  connection  with  edi- 
tions and  advertisements ;  "  instead  of  listening  to  your 
friend,  Dorsenne,  you  are  pui'suing  blue  devils  that  are 
flying  across  the  room." 

"They  should  fly  away  at  least,"  answered  Alba, 
pointing  to  Fanny  Hafner  and  Prince  d'Ardea,  seated 
on  a  sofa,  and  she  continued:  "What  I  spoke  to  you 
about  last  week — has  it  been  sufficiently  proven  ?  You 
do  not  know  all  the  irony  of  it.  You  were  not  pres- 
ent, like  me,  at  the  poor  girl's  baptism,  day  before 
yesterday  ?  " 

"  Very  true,"  said  Julien  ;  "  you  were  godmother.  I 
dreamed  of  Leo  XIII.  as  godfather,  with  a  princess  of 
the  house  of  Bourbon  as  godmother.  Hafner's  triumph 
would  have  been  more  splendid." 

"  He  had  to  be  content  with  his  ambassador  and  your 
humble  servant,"  replied  Alba,  with  a  feeble  laugh, 
which  soon  changed  into  a  bitter  tone.  "  Are  you 
pleased  with  your  pupil  ? "  she  added.  "  I  make  prog- 
ress. I  am  beginning  to  laugh  when  I  should  like  to 
weep.  But  you  yourself  would  not  have  laughed  if  you 
had  seen  that  charming  Fanny's  fervor.  She  was  the 
picture  of  happy  faith.    No  mockery,  please." 

"  And  where  did  the  ceremony  take  place  ?  "  asked 
Dorsenne,  obeying  this  almost  supplicating  injunction 

"In  the  chapel  of  the  Dames  du  Cenacle." 

"I  know  the  place,"  interrupted  the  author.  "  One  of 
the  prettiest  corners  of  Home !  It  is  in  an  old  Pian- 
ciani  palace,  a  large  house,  almost  opposite  the  Koyal 
Calcografia,  where  they  sell  those  fantastic  etchings  by 
the  great  Piranese,  those  dungeons  and  ruins  so  in- 
tensely iDoetical.    It  is  the  Goya  of  stone — there  is  a 


268  COSMOPOLIS. 

garden  on  the  upper  terrace,  which  gives  a  border  of 
flowers  and  foliage  to  the  roof.  And  then,  to  ascend  to 
the  chapel  you  follow  a  winding  way,  a  slope  without 
steps,  and  you  meet  nuns  in  purple  dresses,  in  black 
cloaks,  with  faces  so  delicate  in  the  white  setting  of 
their  fluted  caps  and  embroidered  wimples.  Just  the 
retreat  for  one  of  my  heroines.  My  old  friend  Mont- 
fanon  took  me  there.  As  we  were  mounting  to  this 
tower,  about  six  weeks  ago,  we  heard  a  dozen  little 
girls'  voices,  thin,  small,  shrill  voices,  singing,  *  Questo 
cuor  tu  lo  vedrai.'  *  It  was  a  procession  of  little  cate- 
chists  coming  from  the  opposite  direction,  and  the  pale 
thin  flame  of  their  tapers  trembled  in  the  waning  day- 
light. It  was  exquisite.  Never  mind,  permit  me  to  Jaugh 
now,  at  the  thought  of  Montfanon's  anger  when  I  tell 
him  about  this  baptism.  If  I  knew  where  to  find  the 
old  leaguer  ?  But  he  is  hiding  since  our  duel.  He  is 
doing  penance  in  some  retreat.  I  have  told  you  that 
for  him  the  world  has  not  moved  since  Francois  de 
Guise.  He  allows  Protestants  and  Jews  only  a  right  to 
the  stake.  So,  when  Monseigueur  Guerillot  speaks  to 
him  of  Fanny's  religious  aspirations,  he  gives  savage 
replies  right  and  left.  Should  she  have  herself  thrown 
to  the  lions,  like  Sainte  Blandini,  he  would  still  cry  out 
sacrilege  and  insincerity." 

"He  did  not  see  her  day  before  yesterday,"  said 
Alba ;  "  nor  the  expression  of  her  face  when  she  recited 
the  Creed.  You  know  that  I  am  not  to  be  suspected  of 
mysticism,  and  I  have  many  moments  of  doubt.  There 
are  hours  when  I  can  believe  in  nothing,  so  evil  and  sad 
does  life  appear  to  me.  But  I  shall  never  forget  that 
expression.  She  saw  God !  Some  of  the  ladies  who 
were  there  had  very  touching  and  pious  faces.  The  old 
cardinal  was  very  venerable.  They  were  all  around 
Fanny,  like  the  saints  around  the  Madonna,  in  the  prim- 
itive paintings  which  you  taught  me  to  love.  When  the 
baptism  was  over,  guess  what  she  said  to  me :  '  Let  us 

*  That  lieart  of  Jesns  shalt  thou  see. 


ALBA   SEES.  269 

pray  for  my  good  father,  and  for  his  conversion ! '    Is 
not  that  a  melancholy  blindness  ?  " 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Dorsenne,  jesting  anew,  "  that  in 
the  father's  dictionary  this  word  has  another  meaning : 
Conversion,  common  noun,  applied  only  to  bonds.  But 
let  us  reason  a  little,  Contessina.  Why  do  you  find  it  so 
sad  that  this  girl  should  see  her  father  according  to  her 
own  character  ?  And  why  do  you  find  it  melancholy  that 
this  adorable  saint  should  be  the  daughter  of  that  con- 
summate thief  ?  How  I  wish  you  were  really  my  pupil, 
and  that  it  were  not  too  ridiculous  to  give  you  a  jDsycho- 
logic  lecture,  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  hall.  I  would 
tell  you,  when  you  see  one  of  those  anomalies  which 
make  you  indignant,  think  of  its  causes.  This  is  easy. 
Although  a  Protestant,  Fanny  is  of  Jewish  origin,  that 
is,  the  descendant  of  a  persecuted  race,  in  which,  with 
the  defects  inherent  in  proscribed  nations,  corresponding 
virtues  are  developed.  These  are  the  spirit  of  family 
devotion,  the  utter  unselfishness  of  the  woman  who  feels 
that  she  is  the  comfort  of  the  threatened  hearth,  the 
sweet  flower  which  perfumes  the  sombre  prison.  This 
causes  her  love  for  her  father.  For  her  piety,  it  is 
also  very  natural.  Let  me  be  pedantic,  my  profession 
permits  it,  and  make  use  of  the  big  ugly  word  atavism. 
It  is,  as  you  may  or  may  not  know,  the  reappearance 
within  us  of  an  ancestor  after  one  hundred,  five  hun- 
dred, two  thousand  years.  Now,  remember  the  Bible, 
and  that  collection  of  pious  women — Rebecca,  Ruth,  Es- 
ther, Marianne,  Elizabeth,  the  two  Marys,  and  that  Ve- 
ronica who  wiped  the  face  of  Jesus.  It  is  one  of  these 
who  lives  again  in  Hafner's  daughter,  as  the  poet  of  the 
Song  of  Songs  lived  in  Henri  Heine,  as  one  of  the 
prophets  lived  in  Spinoza,  as  some  Iscariot  lives  in 
that  robber,  Hafner,  himself.  AVhen  you  look  at  life 
under  this  aspect,  all  the  personages  that  surround  you 
appear  like  these,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  tapestry  that 
draped  the  wall  above  their  heads.  "  This  is  the  world, 
an  opportunity  to  suspend  in  our  thoughts  figured  tapes- 


270  COSMOPOLIS. 

tries  with  an  ever-renewed  admiration  for  the  vast  loom 
of  nature,  which  never  stops  weaving-  new  webs  more 
curious  than  the  last.  And  now,  I  have  finished  my 
lecture,  which  you  were  very  good  to  listen  to  without 
yawning  in  my  face." 

"  All  this  is  fine  and  good,"  replied  Alba,  with  great 
seriousness.  As  it  were,  she  had  hung  to  Dorsenne's 
words  while  he  spoke  with  that  instinctive  taste  for 
ideas  of  this  order  which  proved  her  true  origin  better 
than  the  gossip  of  society.  "  But  you  do  not  take  grief 
into  account.  Yet  the  human  creature  who  has  not  asked 
to  live,  and  who  suffers,  cannot  be  gazed  at  like  a  tapes- 
try, a  painting,  or  a  thing^.  You,  who  have  heart,  what 
becomes  of  your  theories  when  you  see  tears  ?  " 

"  Well,  who  wishes  to  weep  here  ? "  replied  the  author. 
"  It  is  not  Hafner,  since  a  prince  is  to  become  his  son-in- 
law.  It  is  not  this  prince,  since  a  baron  ten  times  a  mill- 
ionaire will  become  his  father-in-law.  It  is  not  Fanny, 
since  she  believes  as  no  one  now  believes,  and  has  just 
been  baptized."  And  in  a  caressing  voice  he  added : 
"  There  is  only  you,  little  Countess,  who  play  this  dan- 
g-erous  game — of  shedding  for  others  the  tears  they 
would  shed  if  they  felt  the  misfortunes  they  do  not  feel." 

"  It  is  because  I  foresee  the  day  when  Fanny  will  feel 
her  misfortune,"  replied  the  young  girl.  "  I  do  not 
know  when  she  will  judge  her  father,  but  alas !  I  am 
only  too  sure  that  she  has  already  be^n  to  judge  Ar- 
dea.     Observe  her  now,  I  beg  you." 

Dorsenne  looked  toward  the  betrothed  couple.  Fanny 
listened  to  the  Prince,  but  with  a  trace  of  pain  on  her 
beautiful  face,  the  lines  of  which  were  ideally  pure.  He 
laughed  the  laugh  of  a  talker  who  is  relating  an  anec- 
dote which  he  considers  very  witty,  and  which  jars  the 
sensitive  delicacy  of  the  person  to  whom  he  speaks, 
without  his  knowing  it  or  caring.  They  were  no  longer 
the  same  two  as  on  the  first  days  of  the  engagement, 
when  Julien  had  noted  complete  illusion  on  the  part  of 
the  young  girl  with  regard  to  her  future  husband. 


ALBA   SEES,  2^71 

"You  are  right,  Contessina,"  said  he,  "the  disillusion 
has  begun.     It  is  a  little  early." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  little  early,"  replied  Alba,  "  and  yet  it  is 
too  late.  Would  you  believe  there  are  moments  when  I 
ask  myself  if  it  is  not  my  duty  to  tell  her  the  truth  about 
her  marriage,  such  as  I  know  it,  with  the  story  of  the 
man  of  straw,  the  forced  sale,  and  Ardea's  bargaining  ?  " 

"You  will  not  do  it,"  saidDorsenne  ;  "  and  besides,  to 
what  purpose  ?  This  one  or  another,  the  man  who  will 
marry  her,  will  want  only  her  money,  you  may  be  sure. 
Millions  must  be  paid  for  in  this  world,  and  this  is  one 
of  their  ransoms.  But  I  shall  get  you  scolded  by  your 
mother  for  monopolizing  you,  and  I  still  have  the  bore 
of  two  visits  this  evening." 

"  Well,  put  them  off,"  said  Alba,  whose  almost  tragic 
seriousness  of  a  moment  ago  suddenly  gave  way  to  co- 
quettishness.     "  I  ask  you  not  to  go !" 

"  I  must,"  replied  Julien.  "  To  begin  with,  it  is  the 
old  Duchess  de  Pietrapertosa's  last  Wednesday;  and 
after  her  grandson's  recent  tricks -" 

"  She  is  so  ugly,"  said  Alba.  "  You  are  not  going  to 
sacrifice  me  to  her "? " 

"  And  then  I  have  my  countrywroman,  who  goes  away 
to-morrow,  and  of  whom  I  must  take  leave  to-night, 
Mme.  de  Sauve,  with  whom  you  met  me  at  the  Capitol 
Museum.     You  will  not  say  that  she  is  too  ugly  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alba,  who  had  already  become  dreamy ; 
"  she  is  very  pretty."  She  had  on  her  lips  a  new  prayer, 
which  she  did  not  formulate.  Then,  with  a  pleading 
look :  "  At  least  come  back.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
come  back  after  your  two  visits.  You  will  have  finished 
them  within  an  hour  and  a  half.  It  will  not  be  mid- 
night. You  know  they  never  leave  before  one  o'clock, 
and  sometimes  two.    Will  you  return  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  possible.  But  at  all  events  to-morrow,  at  the 
studio,  to  see  the  portrait." 

"  Then  good-by,"  said  the  young  girl,  in  a  smothered 
voice. 


272  COSMOPOLIS. 


COMMON  MISERY 

Alba  Steno  had  uttered  this  farewell  in  so  peculiar  a 
tone  that  Dorsenne  was  still  moved  by  it  as  he  went 
down  the  stairs,  five  minutes  later.  He  was  saying-  to 
himself :  "  Take  care,  Master  Julien.  She  was  really  too 
pretty  to-night,  with  her  rather  thin  shoulders,  in  the 
shimmer  of  her  white  dress,  her  pale  complexion,  her 
red  mouth,  and  her  light  eyes — too  pretty  and  too  be- 
witching. A  few  more  conversations  of  this  kind  and 
we  shall  be  very  near  the  Folly."  This  was  his  rather 
irreverent  way  of  describing  marriage,  "  And  as  for  that, 
no,  no,  no.  Remember  the  motto  of  the  ring."  And  he 
pressed  to  his  mouth  the  sapphire  of  a  large  ring  he 
wore  on  his  little  finger.  He  had  had  engraved  in  it  the 
five  letters  M.  H.  U.  D.  P.  These  v/ere  not  loving  ini- 
tials, as  Alba's  jealousy  would  surely  have  supposed  if 
the  poor  child  had  been  able  to  examine  this  strange 
talisman  of  celibacy.  In  one  of  those  fits  of  childish- 
ness that  sometimes  seized  him,  this  singular  artist  had 
wished  to  take  for  the  motto  of  his  life  a  celebrated 
formula  of  the  scriptures  applied  to  the  most  inconstant 
and  at  the  same  time,  most  systematic  of  Bohemianism  : 
Mcmoria  hospitis  unius  diet  praiereuniis.  The  memory 
of  the  passing  guest  of  a  day.  This  was  the  meaning  of 
the  inscription  in  the  ring,  and  what  he  wished  to  leave 
behind  him  in  all  his  friendships  and  all  his  loves.  He, 
whom  his  rivals  accused  of  being  conceited,  was  so  little 
so,  that  on  leaving-  the  Steno  villa  on  that  lovely  night 
of  May,  he  forgot  to  ask  himself  what  impression  he 
had  again  produced  on  the  young  girl.  Yet  he  had 
spoken  of  a  dangerous  game^and  did  not  see  that  if 
he  risked  his  bachelor  independence.  Alba  risked  her 
whole  heart — a  heart  so  sick  that  it  was  a  pitj'-  to  play 
with  it.    Alas !    The  work  of  seduction  undertaken  with 


COMMOX   MISERY.  273 

voluntary  unconsciousness  by  that  man  at  once  so  in- 
sensible and  so  curious  to  make  others  feel,  was  already 
more  than  half  accomplished.  The  soul  of  prey  had 
already  tied  the  poor  little  soul  as  the  spider  ties  with  a 
thread  a  winged  insect  taken  in  its  web,  palpitating-, 
without  the  power  of  breaking  it.  When  Dorsenne  had 
left  the  drawing-room,  the  Contessina  felt  once  more, 
in  spite  of  the  numerous  assembly  that  filled  it,  that 
cold  impression  of  solitude  that  she  always  had  after 
similar  conversations.  Julien  was  the  only  being  in 
the  world  capable  of  suspending  within  her,  for  a  few 
minutes  by  the  magic  of  his  presence,  the  martyrdom  of 
the  fixed  idea  which  consumed  her.  He  was  handsome ; 
he  was  famous ;  he  had  the  art  of  always  speaking  to  her 
as  if  he  had  understood  her  secret  sorrows,  though  he 
scarcely  ever  pained  her  by  an  excess  of  knowledge.  To 
the  prestige  of  his  wit  and  renown,  he  had  just  added 
that  of  romantic  courage  in  his  extraordinary  duel  with 
Boleslas  Gorka.  Finally,  and  this  was  an  element  of 
interest  of  which  the  author  was  at  least  innocent,  the 
habitual  raillery  of  his  speech  contrasted  too  much  with 
the  subtle  pathos  of  his  books,  not  to  give  to  the  unfor- 
tunate child  the  idea  that  he,  too,  concealed  painful 
secrets  under  a  mask  of  scepticism.  A  single  one  of 
these  motives  would  have  sufiiced  for  another  woman  to 
absolutely  forbid  her  daughter  from  having  any  familiar 
intercourse  with  an  individual  so  capable  of  inflaming 
a  youthful  imagination.  But  the  Countess  thought  all 
the  less  of  any  such  watchfulness,  because,  like  nearly  all 
parents,  she  had  formed  a  conviction  about  Alba's  char- 
acter :  "  He  who  will  inspire  her  with  enthusiasm,"  she 
would  laughingly  say,  "  is  yet  unborn."  The  Contes- 
sina's  nature  was  too  different  from  her  own  for  her  to 
understand  this  heart  which  opened  least  when  it  was 
most  touched,  whereas  emotion  was  the  synonym  of 
expansion  with  the  lavish  and  spontaneous  Venetian. 
That  evening  again,  she  had  not  even  observed  Alba's 
re  very  after  Dorsenne's  departure,  and  it  was  Hafner 


274  C08MOPOLI8. 

who  called  her  attention  to  it.  The  wily  Baron  supposed 
that  if  the  novelist  was  attentive  to  the  young  lady,  it 
was  with  the  object  of  winning  a  dowry  which  would 
have  seemed  considerable  to  anyone,  and  particularly 
so  to  a  Frenchman  only  in  comfortable  circumstances. 
Julien's  twenty-five  thousand  francs  of  income  made 
him  independent.  The  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
that  Alba  would  inherit  at  her  mother's  death  made  a 
very  large  fortune.  Therefore  Hafner  thought  himself 
once  more  deserving  of  his  title  of  "  old  friend ,"  in  taking 
Mme.  Steno  to  one  side  to  say  : 

"Do  you  think  Alba  has  been  very  strange  for  the 
past  few  days  ?  " 

"She  has  always  been  so,"  replied  the  Countess. 
"  Such  are  the  young  people  of  to-day,  who  have  noth- 
ing young  about  them." 

"  Don't  you  believe,"  insisted  the  Baron,  "  that  there 
might  be  some  other  cause  for  this  sadness — too  much 
interest  in  a  certain  person,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Alba !  "  cried  the  mother,  "  in  whom  ?  " 

"In  Dorsenne,"  replied  Hafner,  lowering  his  voice. 
"  He  has  been  gone  five  minutes ;  and  observe  that  she 
no  longer  notices  anything  or  anyone." 

"Ah!  1  would  be  only  too  happy,"  replied  Mme. 
Steno,  laughing.  "He  is  handsome  ;  he  has  talent  and 
fortune.  He  is  the  great-nephew  of  a  hero,  which,  with 
my  ideas,  is  equivalent  to  being  of  the  old  nobility- 
But  Alba  is  not  thinking  of  him,  I  assure  you.  To 
begin  with,  she  would  have  told  me  so  ;  she  tells  me 
everything.  We  are  two  friends,  almost  two  playmates, 
and  she  knows  that  I  shall  leave  her  entirely  free  about 
her  marriage.  No,  my  friend;  I  know  my  daughter. 
Unfortunately,  neither  Dorsenne  nor  anyone  else  inter- 
ests her.  She  would  at  least  amuse  herself — whereas 
everything  bores  her,  enervates  her.  I  sometimes  fear 
she  will  go  into  a  decline  like  her  cousin,  Andryana 
Navagero,  whom  she  so  greatly  resembles.  But  I  shall 
stir  her  up.    It  will  not  take  me  long." 


COMMON   MISERY.  275 

"A  Dorsenne  for  a  son-in-law?"  said  Hafner,  look- 
ing at  the  Countess  as  she  made  her  way  toward  Alba, 
througrh  the  scattered  groups  of  guests.  And  he  shook 
his  head  as  he  glanced  with  satisfaction  at  his  own 
future  son-in-law.  "This  is  what  people  get  when 
they  do  not  closely  follow  their  children.  They  think 
they  know  them,  until  some  folly  suddenly  opens  their 
eyes.  And  then  it  is  too  late !  Well,  I  have  warned 
her,  and  it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

This  profound  observer,  as  his  eyes  rested  compla- 
cently on  the  group  formed  by  Peppino  Ardea  and 
Fanny,  did  not  suspect  that  he  knew  no  better  his  own 
daughter,  whom  he  had  betrothed  to  a  Roman  prince,  for 
the  gi-eater  triumph  of  his  worldly  ambition.  Among  the 
men  and  women  assembled  in  the  drawing-room  and  on 
the  terrace,  including  the  penetrating  Lydia  Maitland 
in  quest  of  a  new  vengeance.  Alba  alone  suspected  the 
truth,  but  she  only  suspected  it.  She  was  not  mistaken 
in  thinking  that  she  noticed  a  beginning  of  disillusion  in 
her  young  friend  to  whom,  since  Maud's  departure,  she 
was  daily  becoming  more  attached  by  the  tender  sym- 
pathy of  a  cruel  identity  of  fate,  and  she  was  right  in 
judging  that  the  Prince's  conversation,  that  evening, 
was  singularly  unpleasant  to  his  fiancee.  This  conver- 
sation, however,  was  only  a  succession  of  very  innocent 
jokes  on  the  sovereign  pontiff,  such  as  are  told  every 
day  in  Rome,  and  in  clerical  circles,  even  more  than  in 
others.  Alba  was  able  to  convince  herself  of  the 
fact,  when,  having  been  lectured  by  her  mother,  she 
approached  the  couple  to  do  her  duty  as  hostess.  In 
spite  of  Fanny's  growing  discomfort,  Ardea  was  amus- 
ing himself  by  relating  to  her  more  or  less  truthful 
anecdotes  on  the  household  of  the  Vatican.  He  thus 
tried  to  lessen  somewhat  her  enthusiasm  as  a  Catholic, 
at  which  he  already  took  umbrage.  His  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  and  that  of  his  social  interest  made  him 
understand  what  an  absurdity  it  would  be  to  return  to 
the  clerical  coteries,  after  having  married  a  millionaire 


276  COSMOPOLIS. 

just  converted.  To  be  just,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
the  Countess's  dry  champagne  was  not  absolutely  for- 
eign to  the  obstinacy  with  which  he  teased  his  fiancee 
on  her  religious  simplicity.  This  was  not  the  first  time 
that  he  had  yielded  to  that  habit  of  tippling  which  had 
been  one  of  the  darling  sins  of  his  youth,  and  which  is 
less  rare  under  those  sunny  skies  than  the  modesty  of 
the  North  imagines. 

"  You  are  just  in  time,  Contessina,"  said  he,  when 
Mdlle.  Steno  had  seated  herself  beside  them  on  the  sofa. 
"  Your  friend  is  quite  scandalized  by  a  story  I  have  just 
related  to  her.  You  know  one  of  the  nobles  used  the 
Vatican  telephone  this  winter,  to  g-ive  rendezvous  to 
Giulia  Eezzonica,  without  arousing  Molino's  jealousy. 
But  that  is  nothing.  I  nearly  quarrelled  with  Fanny 
for  having  revealed  to  her  that  the  Holy  Father  repeats 
his  benedictions  in  the  empty  Sixtine  Chajjel  with  a 
singing  master,  like  a  simple  prima-donna.     .     .     ." 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  I  don't  appreciate 
these  jests,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  visible  irritation  which 
her  patience  still  controlled.  "If  you  wish  to  continue 
them,  I  shall  get  up  and  leave  you  with  Alba." 

"  Since  you  are  offending  her,"  said  the  latter  to 
the  Prince,  "  change  the  subject." 

"Ah,  Contessina,"  replied  Peijpino,  shaking  his  head, 
"  you  already  uphold  her !  What  will  it  be  later  on  ? 
Well,  I  apologize  for  my  innocent  epigrams  on  His 
Holiness  at  home.  It  is  a  pity,"  he  laughingly  con- 
tinued. I  still  had  two  or  three  very  funny  details, 
among  others,  the  story  of  a  chest  filled  with  gold  coins 
which  some  good  Christian  had  left  him  as  a  legacj^ 
and  this  poor  dear  man  was  counting  them  when  the 
chest  slipped  and  there  was  the  whole  treasure  on  the 
floor,  and  the  pope  and  a  cardinal  chasing  the  Napo- 
leons on  all  fours  when  a  servant  entered.  Tableau  !  I 
assure  you  that  the  other  one,  the  good  Pius  IX.,  was 
the  first  one  to  laugh  with  us,  at  all  this  gossip  of  the 
Vatican.     This  one  is  not  so  much  alia  mano.    But  all 


COMMON   MISERY.  277 

the  same,  he  is  a  saintly  man.  I  do  him  full  justice. 
Only  this  saintly  man  is  a  man,  and  even  a  good  old 
man.     This  is  what  you  will  not  see." 

"  Where  are  you  going "? "  said  Alba,  who  had  risen, 
as  she  had  threatened  Ardea  to  do. 

"  To  my  father,  with  whom  I  wish  to  exchange  a  few 
words." 

"  I  warned  you  to  change  the  subject,"  said  Alba, 
while  she  and  the  Prince  remained  alone.  Ardea,  a  lit- 
tle abashed,  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  laugh. 

"  Well,  little  Countess,  you  must  admit  that  this  situ- 
ation does  not  lack  piquancy.  You  will  see  she  will 
forbid  my  going  to  the  Quirinal.  The  next  thing  would 
be  for  Hafner  to  have  religious  scruples,  forbidding  him 
from  bowing  to  the  king.     But  I  must  appease  Fanny." 

"  Heavens !  "  said  Alba  to  herself  as  she  watched  the 
young  man  rise  in  turn.  "  I  believe  he  is  a  little  tipsy. 
What  a  shame  !  " 

Even  if  he  had  not  imbibed  too  many  glasses  of  Extra 
Dry  Monopole  of  a  celebrated  brand,  the  very  modern 
heir  of  Sixtus  V.'s  successor  would  not  have  taken  his 
fiancee's  Catholic  indignation  seriously.  Without  know- 
ing the  Machiavelian  plan  by  which  Baron  Justus  had 
made  use  of  Noah  Ancona,  one  of  the  worst  business 
agents  in  Rome,  to  force  him  into  this  marriage,  he  had 
no  illusions  as  to  the  absolutely  mercantile  character  of 
this  alliance.  Let  us  add  to  the  credit  or  blame  of  this 
amiable  sceptic — this  is  a  matter  of  opinion — that  he 
did  not  give  it  much  importance.  If  he  had  the  in- 
stinctive pride  of  his  name,  he  had  enough  positive 
sense  to  consider  that  nobility  without  privileges  is  of 
very  doubtful  value,  and  he  had  a  feeling  that  in  this 
affair  of  his  marriage  he  was  the  speculator  on  the 
financier.  The  evident  respect  with  which  Hafner  sur- 
rounded the  scutcheon  of  the  Castagnas  seemed  an  ex- 
cellent joke  to  the  descendant  of  that  noble  family,  and 
the  clerical  snobbishness  of  the  neophyte  Fanny,  com- 
pleted his  amusement.     Perhaps  this  might  have  been 


278  COSMOPOLIS. 

a  peculiar  turn  of  that  pride  of  nobility  which  shows 
itself  in  a  thousand  ways.  The  disdain  of  the  noble- 
man for  all  nominal  distinctions  which  you  admire  so 
much  in  him,  is  one  of  those  ways.  Surelj%  if  the 
Prince  was  very  clear-sighted  about  the  Baron,  he  was 
cruelly  mistaken  with  regard  to  Fanny.  But  where 
would  he  have  found  the  necessary  document  to  under- 
stand the  young-  girl's  nature  and  her  religious  story, 
well  worthy  of  being  told,  at  least  in  the  main  facts, 
even  if  it  had  not  been  so  narrowly  connected  with  the 
tragical  ending  of  the  drama  now  being  enacted  in  poor 
Alba's  heart  ?  Is  not  a  sincere  conversion  the  most  in- 
teresting of  moral  problems  ?  Besides,  neither  the  lit- 
tle scene  of  that  evening,  nor  those  which  follow,  would 
be  intelligible  without  this  short  analysis  that  a  Roman 
such  as  Ardea,  was,  more  than  any  other,  incapable  of 
even  suspecting.  For  him,  the  religious  question  had 
always  been  too  intimately  associated  with  local  and 
even  municipal  aflfairs  and  the  daily  politics  of  the 
country.  In  passing  before  the  confessionals  of  Saint 
Peter's,  he  would  not  have  failed  to  kneel  before  one  of 
the  priests  to  receive,  with  a  light  blow  on  the  head, 
the  remission  of  all  his  venial  sins,  yet  he  was  sincere 
in  considering  the  holy  Father,  as  the  nobility  of  the 
eternal  city  has  always  done,  with  an  irony  that  did  not 
exclude  veneration.  But  for  Fanny,  who  the  day  before 
had  received  communion  from  the  pope  himself,  the 
contrast  between  this  sacred  emotion  and  Ardea's  jest- 
ing tone  was  too  great.  All  those  who  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  hear  Leo  XIII.  celebrate  one  of  his  pri- 
vate masses,  know  that  the  transfiguration  of  the  pon- 
tiff by  the  fervor  of  the  sacrifice  is  a  spectacle  of  more 
astonishing  magnificence  than  the  pomp  of  the  Sixtine 
Chapel.  This  deep  voice,  that  does  not  utter  one  sylla- 
ble of  the  prayers  without  sustaining  it,  making  it  full  of 
soul, — that  wasted  body  which  retains  just  enough  mat- 
ter to  feed  the  invincible  fire  of  thought — that  grand 
and  simple  gesture  of  a  benediction  which,  reaching  far 


COMMON  MISERY.  279 

beyond  the  few  faithful,  kneeling  in  the  narrow  chapel, 
descends  on  the  whole  of  Christendom — those  eyes  of 
Saint  Peter's  successor,  so  full  of  light  that  they  seem 
a  reflection  of  heaven  already  gazed  upon — all  this 
poetry  remains  unforgotten  even  by  a  spectator  who 
does  not  entirely  believe,  if  he  has  retained  the  power 
of  thrilling  at  the  touch  of  the  great  questions  of  the 
soul.  But  for  a  girl  of  Fanny's  age,  baptized  the  day 
before,  truly  believing  and  taking  communion  for  the 
first  time,  what  a  moment  it  was  when  the  old  pontiif 
spoke  the  admirable  words :  "  Corpus  Domini  Nostri," 
and  with  his  venerable,  pale,  and  almost  diaphanous 
hand,  gave  her  the  wafer !  Peppino  Ardea's  cleverness 
must  have  been  that  of  a  club  jockey,  foreign  to  all 
comprehension  of  spiritual  life,  if  he  did  not  realize  that 
by  letting  fall  the  least  raillery  on  such  an  im^jression, 
he  was  committing  an  irreparable  fault !  And  to  think 
that  he  had  imagined  himself  very  clever  in  taking 
measures  against  what  he  considered  a  childish  atti- 
tude, and  he  was  even  tempted  to  say,  a  theatrical  atti- 
tude ! 

Like  almost  all  the  revolutions  of  this  order,  the  work 
of  Christianity  accomplished  in  Fanny  during  many 
years,  had  had  a  principle  as  an  example.  The  true  in- 
strument of  propaganda  is  neither  doctrine  nor  argu- 
ment ;  it  is  the  contact  of  one  soul  with  another.  Faith 
can  be  neither  taught  nor  imposed  ;  it  is  communicated 
by  virtue  of  a  reversibility  and  contagion  which  show 
its  mysterious  and  humanly  indefinable  essence.  Fanny, 
while  very  young — she  was  then  seventeen  years  old — 
motherless,  and  spiritually  deserted  by  her  father, 
though  he  showered  upon  her  material  gifts,  had  be- 
come very  intimate  with  Mdlle.  de  Sallach,  the  daughter 
of  one  of  the  greatest  nobles  of  Styria,  who  was  con- 
sumptive, and  had  come  to  die  in  Rome.  The  Baron  had 
encouraged  this  intimacy  through  vanity,  nor  did  he 
realize  the  influence  to  which  his  daughter  was  being 
subjected.    Mathilde  de  Sallach  was  in  fact  one  of  those 


280  COSMOPOLIS. 

almost  supernatural  creatures  for  the  delicacy  of  their 
piety,  and  so  fervent  that  she  had  soon  acquired  an  al- 
most absolute  empire  of  thought  over  her  friend's  float- 
ing convictions.  Fanny's  face  spoke  truly.  She  had 
taken  only  the  Jewish  element  from  the  rather  confused 
heredity  which  made  her  and  her  father  such  complex 
beings.  Now,  what  distinguishes  the  Jewish  soul  more 
than  all  the  other  characteristics,  criticized  or  blamed 
by  the  adversaries  or  pai-tisans  of  that  invincible  race, 
is  a  singular  force  in  embracing  what  it  wishes,  and  a 
violence  of  desire  that  never  wearies  and  never  yields. 
Applied  to  business,  these  energies  create  the  fortunes 
we  know  of ;  applied  to  social  triumphs,  they  execute 
those  astonishing  worldly  feats  by  which,  ten  years 
after  a  scandalous  lawsuit,  Hafner  could  marry  his 
daughter  into  the  best  European  nobility  without  creat- 
ing too  much  amazement  by  this  alliance.  Turned  to 
higher  things — these  same  energies  become  magnified 
until  they  produce  real  moral  miracles— like  that  sudden 
illumination  of  father  Katisbonne,  in  one  of  the  chapels 
of  St.  Andrew's  during  the  preparations  for  M.  de  la 
Ferronay's  funeral.  When  Fanny  had  read  with  Mdlle. 
de  Sallach,  first  the  "  New  Testament,"  then  the  "  Imi- 
tation of  Christ,"  then  "  La  Vie  De'vote,"  then  "  The 
Meditations  on  the  Gospel,"  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
thoughts  which  form  the  marrow  of  the  beautiful  books 
with  the  same  intense  absorption  of  her  whole  being 
that  her  implacable  father  had  carried  into  his  business. 
She  was  hungry  and  thirsty  for  Catholicism,  as  he  had 
been  hungry  and  thirsty  for  millions  and  titles.  Ma- 
thilde's  death,  which  was  one  of  those  sublime  specta- 
cles given  by  the  agony  of  true  believers,  settled  her 
faith.  She  saw  the  sick  girl  receive  the  sacraments,  and 
the  ineffable  joy  of  salvation  on  that  dying  face,  illumined 
by  ecstasy.  She  heard  her  say,  with  a  smile  of  ineffable 
certainty  : 

"  I  shall  ask  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  for  you." 

How  could  she  resist  such  a  cry  and  such  a  vision  ? 


COMMON   MISERY.  281 

Tlierefore  the  next  day  she  implored  of  her  father  per- 
mission to  be  baptized,  and  obtained  from  him  an  an- 
swer too  significant  not  to  be  noted  here  : 

"  No  doubt,"  answered  this  astonishing-  man,  who  in 
the  place  of  his  heart  had  a  current  list  of  stocks  where 
everything-  had  a  value,  even  God,  "  no  doubt  I  am  very 
happy  to  see  that  religious  matters  occupy  you  to  this 
point.  Religion  is  useful,  very  useful,  I  would  even  say 
indispensable.  For  the  people,  it  is  a  necessary  re- 
straint, and  for  us  it  goes  with  a  certain  rank,  a  cer- 
tain set,  a  certain  bearing — I  should  add  that  a  person 
like  you,  who  is  called  upon  to  live  in  Austria  and  in 
Italy,  should  be  Catholic ;  yet  you  must  think  of  the 
possibility  of  marrying  some  one  of  another  belief. 
Don't  exclaim.  I  am  your  father.  I  must  provide  for 
everything.  You  know  that  you  will  marry  according  to 
the  dictates  of  your  heart.  Wait  until  it  has  spoken  to 
decide  that  question.  If  you  love  a  Catholic,  by  adopt- 
ing the  faith  of  your  betrothed,  you  will  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  a  graceful  act  of  which  he  will  be  very- 
sensible.  Until  then,  I  don't  prevent  you  from  attend- 
ing all  the  ceremonies  you  like.  Those  of  the  Koman 
liturgy  are  surely  numbered  among  the  most  beautiful, 
and  I  myself  often  entered  Saint  Peter's  in  the  days  of 
the  pontifical  government.  The  taste,  the  magnificence, 
the  music,  all  that  moved  me — only,  before  you  take  a 
definite,  irreparable  step,  I  repeat  it,  you  must  wait ; 
your  actual  condition  of  a  Protestant  has  the  advantage 
of  being  more  neuter,  less  defined." 

What  phrases  to  be  heard  by  a  heart  already  touched 
by  grace  and  by  the  longing  for  eternal  life  !  But  this 
heart  was  that  of  a  very  pure  and  very  tender  young 
girl.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  judge  her  father. 
The  Baron's  frightful  positivism  had  caused  her  con- 
sternation, but  she  had  concluded  nothing,  save  that  she 
must  obey  and  wait  for  him  to  be  enlightened.  She  had 
therefore  waited  in  hope,  sustained  and  directed  by  Car- 
dinal Guerillot,  who  was  later  on  to  baptize  her  and  ob- 


282  COSMOPOLIS. 

tain  for  her  the  favor  of  receiving  communion  for  the 
first  time  at  the  pope's  mass.  This  prelate,  one  of  the 
finest  characters  on  which  the  French  clergy  could 
pride  itself,  since  Monseigneur  Pie,  was  one  of  those 
great  Christians  for  whom  the  hand  of  God  is  as  visible 
in  the  direction  of  human  affairs  as  it  is  invisible  to 
doubting  souls,  when  Fanny,  who  had  long  been  devoted 
to  his  charities,  had  confided  to  him  the  serious  troubles 
of  her  conscience  and  the  difficulty  which  had  arisen 
between  her  father  and  herself  about  that  essential 
point  of  the  baptism,  the  cardinal  had  replied  :  *'  Have 
faith  in  God.  He  will  give  you  a  sign  when  your  hour 
is  come."  And  he  had  uttered  these  words  with  an  ac- 
cent whose  conviction  had  penetrated  the  young  girl 
with  a  certainty  that  had  never  left  her.  More  than 
two  years  had  passed  in  this  hope.  This  fact  will  not 
seem  surprising  to  those  who  know  the  inner  mirages 
customary  to  faith.  It  must  be  added  that  the  contrast 
between  the  setting  wherein  revolved  the  life  of  this 
spoiled  child,  and  this  particular  disposition  was  so 
strong  that  any  other  but  Monseigneur  Guerillot  would 
have  been  mistaken.  It  was,  as  we  have  seen,  the  case 
with  Montfanon,  and  it  was  also  the  case  with  Ardea. 
Surrounded  by  all  the  refinements  of  almost  insolently 
brutal  luxury,  obliged  not  only  to  share  this  luxury, 
but  to  direct  it,  since  she  presided  at  her  father's  magni- 
ficent dinners,  always  dressed  like  a  fashionable  doll, 
Fanny  seemed  to  impersonate  the  very  image  of  worldly 
frivolity  for  whoever  saw  her  drive  by  the  Pincio  or  the 
Pamphili  Villa  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  horses,  the  least 
one  of  which  was  worth  ten  thousand  francs.  Hafner, 
who  was  vain  with  the  same  passion  that  leads  a  man  to 
be  dissipated,  miserly  or  a  gambler,  wished  that  his 
daughter  should  hold,  in  Eome,  the  uncontested  sceptre 
of  elegance.  Who  could  have  guessed  that  this  young 
girl  with  the  pure,  pale  face,  yielded  to  this  wish  of  the 
Baron's  in  a  spirit  of  sacrifice,  obedience,  and  almost  of 
humility  ?     Who  would  have  suspected  that  throughout 


COMMON   MISERY.  283 

the  going  and  coming  of  an  existence  made  up  of  visits 
and  receptions,  she  went  to  sleep  every  night  and  woke 
up  every  morning  in  the  expectation  of  a  real  miracle, 
of  that  sign  announced  by  Monseigneur  Guerillot  ? 
How  could  a  stranger,  even  were  he  free  from  the  preju- 
dices which  blinded  the  irritable  Marquis,  admit  that 
this  mystical  soid  might  have  interpreted  a  meeting 
with  Peppino  Ardea  in  a  miraculous  sense  ?  Yes,  this 
ruin  of  Pope  Urban  VII. 's  heir,  the  victim  of  unintelli- 
gent speculations,  the  deserved  disaster  of  this  pre- 
sumptuous, thoughtless  and  greedy,  fast  man,  his  wild 
enterprises,  his  absurd  loans,  his  forced  sale,  all  the 
greater  or  lesser  episodes  of  this  commonplace  and  sad 
story,  the  Baron  had  shown  to  his  daughter  in  the  light 
of  a  martyrdom  which  she  never  thought  of  mistrusting. 
She  saw  a  providential  design  in  the  abominable  in- 
trigue which  was  about  to  gratify,  at  the  expense  of  her 
happiness,  the  base  aristocratic  covetousness  of  that  pir- 
ate of  the  Bourse  or  Stock  Exchange,  whose  name  she 
bore,  regild  with  stolen  millions  the  symbolic  chestnuts 
ornamenting  the  scutcheon  of  the  Ardeas  !  This  occa- 
sion of  her  baptism  had  appeared  to  her  as  the  result  of 
the  prayers  made  in  heaven,  by  that  angel  of  piety  who, 
on  her  death-bed,  had  promised  to  save  her,  and,  what 
will  appear  even  more  incredible,  and  yet  is  only  too 
true.  Cardinal  Guerillot  shared  her  illusions  !  In  spite 
of. his  seventy  years,  in  spite  of  the  experience  of  the 
confessional,  and  that  far  more  disenchanting  experience 
of  the  struggle  sustained  against  the  freemasonry  of  his 
French  diocese,  which  had  been  the  cause  of  his  exile  to 
Rome,  the  saintly  man  saw  Fanny's  marriage  from  the 
same  supernatural  standpoint.  Many  priests  are  thus 
capable  of  a  simplicity  which,  under  final  analysis, 
seems  to  be  correct.  But  on  the  spot,  the  antithesis 
between  the  apparent  reality  and  what  they  think, 
seems  an  almost  unreasonable  irony.  When  he  had 
baptized  Fanny,  the  old  Bishop  of  Clermont  felt  him- 
self filled  with  such  profound  joy  that  he  said  to  the 


284  COSMOPOLIS. 

dear  child,  with  a  quotation  to  express  more  delicately 
the  tender  respect  of  his  friendship  : 

"  I  may  now  speak  like  Saint  Monica,  after  the  bap- 
tism of  Saint  Augustine :  *  Cur  hie  sim  nescio  jam  con- 
sumpta  spe  kujus  saeculi.'  I  know  not  why  I  remain 
here.  All  my  hope  in  this  century  is  consummated. 
And  I  may  even  add,  with  her :  the  only  thing  that  made 
me  wish  to  remain  a  little  longer  in  this  life  was  to  see 
you  Catholic  before  I  died.  The  belated  traveller  can 
now  depart.  He  has  gathered  the  last  and  fairest 
flower." 

Noble  and  confiding  apostle,  who  was  so  soon  to  leave 
them,  deserving  what  the  African  bishop  said  of  his 
mother  :  "  That  religious  soul  is  finally  freed  from  its 
body,"  should  be  said  of  him.  He  did  not  suspect  that 
he  was  soon  to  pay  very  dearly  for  this  last  realiza- 
tion of  his  last  wish !  He  did  not  foresee  that  the  one 
whom  he  ingeniously  called  his  fairest  flower,  was  to 
become  for  him  the  principle  of  a  very  cruel  sorrow. 
Poor,  great  cardinal!  The  last  trial  of  his  life,  the 
supreme  bitter  drop  of  the  chalice  was  for  him  to 
witness  the  disenchantment  which  so  closely  followed 
the  intoxication  of  the  first  initiation  with  his  sweet 
neophyte!  Of  whom,  if  not  of  him,  would  she  have 
asked  advice  in  the  torturing  doubts  she  immediately 
began  to  have  about  her  feelings  with  regard  to 
her  betrothed?  Therefore,  on  the  day  following  -the 
evening  when  the  imprudent  Ardea  had  jested  with 
such  petty  insistance  on  a  subject  she  considered 
sacred,  she  rang  at  the  door  of  the  apartment  occu- 
pied by  Monseigneur  Guerillot,  in  the  vast  house 
of  the  rue  des  Quatre  Fontaines,  where  dwelt  the 
procurator  of  Saint  Sulpicio.  Her  object  was  not 
to  incriminate  the  more  or  less  wit  of  these  jests, 
nor  relate  her  own  humiliating  observations  on  the 
Prince's  lack  of  sobriety.  No ;  she  wished  to  enlighten 
her  conscience,  on  which  weighed  a  painful  shadoAV. 
At  the  first  moment  of  her  engagement  she  had  believed 


COMMON   3fISEllY.  285 

that  she  loved  Ardea,  so  much  gratitude  had  the  emo- 
tion of  her  now  freed  religious  life  inspired  in  her  for 
the  man,  who  was  after  all  only  the  pretext  of  this  free- 
dom. She  trembled  with  fear,  not  only  that  she  should 
not  love,  but  that  she  should  hate  him,  and,  above  all, 
she  was  a  prey  to  that  disg-ust  for  the  idle  cares  of  so- 
ciety, to  that  lassitude  of  passing-  hopes,  to  that  longing 
for  rest  in  God,  which  is  the  indication  of  true  vocations. 
At  the  thought  that  if  she  survived  her  father  and  re- 
mained free,  she  might  some  day  retire  to  the  Dames 
du  Cenacle,  she  felt  against  her  approaching  marriage 
an  inner  revolt  still  increased  by  the  evidence  of  her 
future  husband's  sad  character.  Had  she  the  right  to 
enter  into  indissoluble  ties,  when  thus  disposed? 
Would  it  be  loyal  to  break  off  without  further  facts,  this 
engagement  which  had  been,  between  her  father  and 
herself,  the  condition  of  her  baptism  ?  She  had  already 
reached  that  point  after  so  short  a  time.  And  her  com- 
plaint was  the  more  pitiful  on  the  day  following  the  one 
when  she  had  been  so  deeply  wounded. 

"  You  may  withdraw,"  replied  Monseigneur  Guerillot, 
"  but  you  must  not  lack  charity  in  your  judgment." 

Fanny  was  too  sincere,  her  faith  was  too  simple  and 
too  deep,  not  to  make  her  follow  this  advice  to  the  let- 
ter, and  she  immediately  conformed  to  it  in  words  and 
intention.  Taking  a  walk  with  Alba  that  afternoon,  she 
made  every  effort  to  destroy  all  trace  left  in  her  friend's 
mind  by  the  little  scene  of  the  day  before.  She  even 
went  further.  She  wished  to  ask  the  forgiveness  of  her 
betrothed.  Forgiveness !  And  for  what  ?  For  having 
been  wounded  by  him  in  the  very  depths  of  her  sensi- 
bilities. Only  from  the  manner  in  which  these  two 
measures  were  received,  she  felt  how  difficult  it  was  to 
practise  that  charity  in  judgment  recommended  by  the 
pious  cardinal.  It  demands  a  discipline  of  the  whole 
heart  which  cannot  perhaps  be  reconciled  with  a  clear 
intelligence.  Alba  looked  at  her  friend  with  a  glance 
filled  with  sorrowful  surprise,  and  kissed  her,  saying: 


286  C0SM0P0LI8. 

"  Peppino  is  not  even  worthy  of  kissing-  the  dust  of 
your  footsteps,  that  is  my  opinion ;  and  if  he  does  not 
spend  the  rest  of  his  life  in  trying-  to  deserve  you,  he 
will  be  either  very  guilty  or  very  foolish.     .     .     ." 

As  for  the  Prince  himself,  the  motives  of  soul  which 
dictated  words  of  excuse  to  his  fiancee,  when  he  himself 
had  been  in  the  wrong,  were  as  profoundly  unintelligible 
to  him  as  they  would  have  been  to  Hafner.  He  thought 
the  latter  had  spoken  to  the  young  girl,  and  he  con- 
gratulated himself  for  having  nipped  in  the  bud  that 
little  comedy  of  exaggerated  clericalism. 

"  Let  us  leave  that,"  he  said  with  condescension.  "  I 
have  been  wanting  in  form,  for  at  heart  j'^ou  know  that 
you  will  always  find  me  respectful  of  that  which  my  fore- 
fathers have  respected.  But  times  have  changed  and 
certain  fanaticisms  are  no  longer  in  good  taste,  even 
with  our  name.  This  is  what  I  meant  to  say,  in  a  man- 
ner you  were  quite  right  to  blame." 

And  he  gallantly  pressed  his  lips  to  Fanny's  little 
hand  without  guessing  that  he  had  increased  the  melan- 
choly of  that  too  generous  child.  The  discord  continued 
to  be  excessive  between  the  world  of  thought  in  which 
she  moved  and  the  one  in  which  breathed  that  ruined 
debauchee.  As  the  mystics  say  with  so  much  profound 
wisdom,  they  were  not  of  the  same  heaven,  or  rather,  be- 
cause the  word  heaven  applied  to  anyone  as  devoid  of 
ideal  as  this  amiable  Prince,  would  seem  too  absurd: 
Ardea  was  all  flesh  and  blood,  and  Mdlle.  Hafner  was  all 
mind  and  heart.  As  Peppino  showed  more  of  his  real 
character  in  each  new  relation  established  between  them, 
this  discord  became  more  apparent.  For  Fanny,  the  last 
two  weeks  of  this  beautiful  month  of  May,  which  seemed 
to  invest  with  radiance  the  happiness  of  her  engagement, 
were  a  series  of  daily  little  disillusions,  an  incessantly 
rejected  and  incessantly  returning  evidence  that  this 
marriage,  accepted  at  first  with  so  much  proud  hope, 
would  be  a  constant  sacrifice  for  her.  However,  this  lay- 
ing bare  more  clearly  of  her  fiance's  deficiencies  of  soul 


COMMON   MISERY.  287 

and  feeling',  would  not  have  sufficed  to  make  her  break 
the  marriage.  That  Peppino,  brought  up  in  idleness, 
corrupted  by  the  double  pride  of  ])irth  and  wealth,  should 
be  at  twenty-eight,  very  frivolous  and  at  the  same  time 
very  cynical,  that  he  should  unite  the  cunning'  of  the 
wily  Italian  with  the  absolute  lack  of  heart  of  the  Paris- 
ian clubman,  that  all  his  projects  for  his  married  life 
should  be  summed  up  in  satisfied  vanities  and  pleasures 
on  a  larger  scale,  that  he  often  rose  from  the  table  with 
eyes  too  bright  and  in  too  cheerful  a  mood — all  this  was 
sufficient  to  cause  suffering  to  a  young  girl  who,  when 
she  became  engaged,  had  believed  in  good  faith  that  she 
was  repairing  an  injustice  of  fate,  giving  back  its  an- 
cient lustre  to  a  venerable  house,  saving  from  desisair 
a  magnanimous  spendthrift,  and  drawing  nearer  to  God 
through  lawful  love.  Of  all  this  dream  which  had  lasted 
but  a  few  hours,  God  alone  remained.  This  sufficed  for 
the  noble  woman  to  say  to  herself:  "My  father  is  so 
happy  that  I  shall  not  spoil  his  joy.  I  shall  do  my  duty 
to  my  husband.  I  shall  be  such  a  good  wife  that  I  shall 
transform  him.  He  has  kept  his  religion.  He  has  heart. 
I  shall  make  a  true  Christian  of  him.  And  then,  I  shall 
have  my  children  and  the  poor.  .  .  ."  Such  were 
the  dreams  born  beneath  the  white  brow  of  that  envied 
fiancee,  whose  dresses  were  already  being  described  in 
the  newspapers,  for  whom  an  army  of  dressmakers, 
seamstresses,  milliners  and  jewellers  were  at  work,  who 
would  have  on  her  marriage  contract  the  same  signa- 
tures as  a  princess  of  the  royal  family,  who  would  be  a 
princess  herself,  and  allied  to  the  most  glorious  aristoc- 
racies in  the  world.  Such  were  the  thoughts  she  would 
carry  about  with  her  all  her  life  in  the  garden  of  the 
Castagna  Palace,  which  was  to  be  hers — that  historical 
garden  in  which  there  is  still  an  alley  of  pear-trees  at  the 
place  were  Sixtus  V.,  about  to  die,  picked  up  a  fruit; 
he  tasted  it  and  said  to  Cardinal  Castagna,  playing  on 
the  two  names — his  own  was  Peretti — "  The  pears  are 
spoiled.    The  Komans  have  enough  of  them.    They  will 


288  COSMOPOLIS. 

soon  eat  chestnuts,"  This  family  anecdote,  which,  by  the 
way,  does  not  prove  very  delicate  wit  in  the  greatest 
pope  of  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  de- 
lighted Justus  Hafner.  To  him  it  was  full  of  the  most 
delightful  humor.  He  never  wearied  of  telling  it  to  his 
colleagues  at  the  club,  to  the  shopkeepers,  iii  fact  to 
anyone,  without  remembering  that  two  days  before  he 
had  bored  the  same  person.  He  even  forgot  to  beware 
of  Dorsenne's  irony. 

"He  imitates  himself  too  much,"  laughingly  said  the 
latter  to  Alba,  one  evening  at  the  end  of  the  month.  "  I 
met  him  this  morning  on  the  Corso ;  and  I  had  my  third 
edition  of  the  very  poor  papal  joke  on  the  pears  and 
chestnuts.  And  then,  as  we  took  a  few  steps  together, 
he  showed  me  the  Bonaparte  palace,  with  a  sublime  ex- 
clamation :  '  We  have  those  two,'  which  means  that  one 
of  the  emperor's  great  nephews  married  one  of  Peppino's 
distant  cousins.  I  assure  you,  he  considers  himself  re- 
lated to  Napoleon.  He  is  not  even  very  proud  of  the 
fact.  The  Bonapartes — small  fry  in  matters  of  nobility ! 
I  am  expecting  the  moment  when  he  will  blush  for 
that." 

"  And  I,  the  one  when  he  will  be  punished  as  he  de- 
serves," said  Alba  Steno,  in  a  gloomy  voice.  "  His  tri- 
umph is  too  insolent.  But  no.  Everything  succeeds 
with  him.  If  it  be  true  that  his  fortune  is  only  an  im- 
mense robbery,  think  of  all  those  he  has  ruined.  In 
what  can  they  believe  when  they  see  his  infamous  pros- 
perity ? " 

"If  they  are  philosophical,"  replied  Dorsenne  more 
gayly  than  before,  "  this  spectacle  should  make  them 
meditate  on  a  saying  of  one  of  my  impious  friends :  we 
cannot  doubt  of  God's  power,  since  he  made  such  errone- 
ous use  of  it,  by  creating  the  world.  And  then,  the  people 
he  ruined  had  no  business  to  speculate  against  him.  And 
is  there  any  property  whose  origin  is  not  robbery  ?  And 
why  should  Providence,  which  did  not  manifest  itself  to 
prevent  Joan  of  Arc  from  being  burned  alive,  or  so  many 


COMMON   MISERY.  289 

rascals  from  peacefully  dying-  in  their  beds,  come  for- 
waid  to  punish  M.  Hafner  for  having-  jiilfered  a  few- 
millions  of  florins  from  selfish  men  and  foolish  noble- 
men ?  But  let  us  leave  this  individual,  half  peacock  and 
half  vulture,  for  his  charming  daughter,  to  whom  you 
will*  carry  a  pleasant  message.  You  remember  a  certain 
prayer  book  of  Montluc's  ?  " 

"  The  one  your  friend  Montfanon  had  bought  to  vex 
the  poor  girl  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  The  old  leaguer  gave  it  back  to  Eibalta, 
who  told  me  so  yesterday,  as  I  jiassed  by— doubtless 
from  a  spirit  of  mortification.  I  say  doubtless,  for  I  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  see  the  poor  dear  man  since  the 
duel,  which  his  impatience  against  Hafner  and  Ardea 
rendered  inevitable.  He  spent,  I  don't  know  how  many 
days  in  retreat  at  the  convent  of  Mount  Olivet,  near 
Sienna,  where  he  has  a  friend,  a  certain  Abbe  de  Negro, 
of  whom  he  always  speaks  as  of  a  saint.  I  heard  of  his 
return  through  Ribalta.  I  shall  try  to  see  him.  Well, 
the  volume  is  again  in  the  shop  of  the  petroleur  of  the 
strada  Borgognona,  and  if  Mdlle.  Hafner  still  wishes  to 
have  it " 

The  writer  did  not  suspect  that  at  the  very  moment, 
when,  as  a  true  child  of  the  century  blinded  by  sophism, 
and  stupefied  by  false  analyses,  he  amused  himself  in 
blaspheming  the  great  and  formidable  idea  of  Provi- 
dence, he  himself  served  as  an  involuntary  instrument 
to  that  mysterious  justice — always  ready  to  reach  us  in 
our  criminal  victories,  and  to  thv/art  our  most  certain 
calculations.  This  conversation  had  taken  place  at  two 
o'clock.  At  four  o'clock,  Alba  w^as  to  call  for  Fanny  to 
do  a  little  shojjping  with  her,  and  finish  the  afternoon  in 
the  garden  of  the  Celimontana  villa,  of  which  the  new 
catholic  was  especially  fond  on  account  of  the  avenue  of 
live  oaks,  at  the  extremity  of  which  was  a  grotto  deco- 
rated with  this  inscription :  "  Here,  Saint  Philip  de  Neri, 
surrounded  by  his  disciples,  came  to  discuss  God  and 
religion."    The  Contessina's  first  care,  naturally,  was  to 


290  COSMOPOLIS. 

communicate  the  news  brought  by  Dorsenne,  that  the 
prayer  book  she  was  so  anxious  to  get,  was  once  more  in 
the  shop  of  the  old  Garibaldian. 

"  How  lucky ! "  cried  Fanny,  her  eyes  flashing  with 
joy.  **  I,  who  could  think  of  no  present  for  my  ^ear 
cardinal.     Shall  we  go  and  buy  it  at  once  ?  " 

"  Montluc's  Book  of  Hours  ? "  answered  old  Kibalta, 
when  the  two  young  girls  left  their  carriage  in  front  of 
his  dusty,  crowded  shop,  in  which  he  stood  with  a 
longer,  thinner,  and  prouder  face  than  ever,  under  his 
long  hat,  which  he  did  not  even  raise.  "  And  how  do 
you  know  I  have  it  ?  Who  told  you  so  ?  Are  there 
spies  everywhere  ?  " 

"  It  is  M.  Dorsenne,  one  of  M.  de  Montfanon's  friends, 
who  told  us,  that  is  all,"  said  Fanny,  in  her  gentle 
voice. 

"  Sara,  Sar^,"  said  the  shopkeeper,  with  his  usual  in- 
solence, and,  opening  the  drawer  of  a  chest,  in  which  he 
kept  his  greatest  treasures,  he  drew  out  the  precious 
volume  which  he  held  out  to  his  two  visitors,  without 
letting  it  go  out  of  his  hand.  Then,  with  his  scolding 
and  disgusting  mouth,  he  began  a  speech  which  repro- 
duced the  details  given  by  Montfanon  himself.  *'  Ah ! 
This  is  a  very  authentic  and  unique  piece.  There  is  a 
mutilated,  but  unquestionable  signature.  I  have  com- 
pared it  with  the  one  preserved  in  the  archives  of 
Sienna.  It  is  undeniably  Montluc's  handwriting,  and 
here  is  his  scutcheon  with  the  turrets.  Here,  too,  are 
the  half-moons  of  the  Piccolominis.  This  Book  of 
Hours  has  a  whole  history.  After  the  famous  siege  the 
marshal  gave  it  to  one  of  the  members  of  that  illustrious 
family.  And  I  am  commissioned  to  sell  it  for  one  of 
his  descendants.  They  will  not  give  it  for  less  than  two 
thousand  francs." 

"  What  a  thief ! "  said  Alba  to  her  companion,  in  Eng- 
lish. "  Dorsenne  told  me  that  M.  de  Montfanon  had 
had  it  for  four  hundred " 

*'  Are  you  sure  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  who,  after  an  affirma- 


COMMON  3IISERY.  291 

tive  answer,  again  addressed  the  bookseller,  with  the 
same  gentleness,  yet  with  a  tone  of  reproach,  as  she  said : 
"  Two  thousand  francs,  Signor  Ribalta !  That  is  not  a 
fair  price,  since  you  had  given  it  to  M.  de  Montfanon 
for  one-fifth  of  that  sum." 

"  ^hen  I  am  a  liar  and  a  thief !  "  brutally  replied  the 
old  man.  "  A  liar  and  a  thief !  "  he  repeated.  "  Four 
hundred  francs !  You  would  like  to  have  that  Book  of 
Hours  for  four  hundred  francs !  I  wish  M.  de  Mont- 
fanon were  here,  to  tell  you  how  much  I  asked  him.  A 
liar  and  a  thief !  "  He  laughed  a  cruel  laugh,  as  he  re- 
placed the  Book  of  Hours  in  the  drawer,  which  he 
locked,  and,  turning  toward  the  two  young  girls,  whose 
delicate  beauty,  set  off  by  their  elegant  dresses,  con- 
trasted so  delightfully  with  the  sordid  surroundings,  he 
enveloped  them  in  a  look  so  full  of  hatred  that  they  felt 
a  little  chill,  and  instinctively  drew  closer  to  each  other. 
Then  the  bookseller  resumed  in  a  lower  voice,  almost  a 
whisper,  interrupted  by  a  sinister  hiss :  "  If  you  wish  to 
spend  four  hundred  francs,  here  is  a  volume  which  is 
well  worth  them,  and  which  I  intended  to  take  to  the 
Savorelli  Palace.  He !  he !  This  must  be  one  of  the 
last,  as  M.  le  Baron  has  bought  in  all  the  rest."  In 
uttering,  or  rather  in  hissing  these  enigmatical  words, 
he  had  opened  the  cupboard  above  the  chest  and  se- 
lected on  one  of  the  shelves,  among  many  others,  a  book 
wrapped  up  in  a  newspaper,  a  proof  that  he  knew  very 
well  how  to  find  things  in  the  apparent  disorder  of  his 
shop.  He  undid  the  newspaper,  and  holding  the  vol- 
ume tightly  in  his  enormous  hand,  with  black  finger- 
nails, he  showed  the  title  to  the  two  young  girls:  "  Haf- 
ner  and  His  Gang.  A  Few  Eeflections  on  a  Scandalous 
Acquittal,  by  a  Stockholder."  This  was  a  pamphlet, 
forgotten  to-day,  but  which  had  made  quite  a  stir  in  the 
financial  circles  of  Paris,  London,  and  Berlin,  having 
been  printed  simultaneously  in  three  languages — in 
French,  in  German,  and  in  English,  just  after  the  great 
lawsuit  of  the  Austro-Dalmatian  Credit.    To  be  just, 


292  COSMOPOLIS. 

even  toward  a  very  unjust  man,  we  must  add  that  this 
tract  was  full  of  errors,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  works 
of  this  kind.  The  only  truly  terrible  pages — because  they 
were  undeniable  as  a  fact,  reproduced  in  extenso  the 
account  of  the  lawsuit  itself,  and  the  sentence,  with  its 
grounds  almost  as  shameful  for  Hafner  as  a  condemna- 
tion. 

"  Seeing  the  uncertain  limits  which  here  separate  bad 
administration  from  fraud,"  such  was  the  gentlest  of 
the  phrases  which  formed  so  scandalous  an  acquittal, 
that  the  Baron  was  said  to  have  spent  enormous  sums  to 
modify  the  terms,  but  without  success.  This  is  what  the 
author  of  the  tract  had  counted  upon  when  he  came  to 
offer  a  printed  copy  to  the  interested  party,  proposing 
to  sell  him  the  whole  edition  at  once. 

''Why  should  I  pay  forty  thousand  francs  for  five 
hundred  copies,  which  a  literary  agency  will  sell  me  in 
two  years'  time  for  ten  kreutzers  apiece  1 "  answered 
Hafner,  very  simply. 

In  point  of  fact,  he  had  patiently  bought  and  destroyed 
the  greater  number  of  volumes,  and  how  could  the  others 
have  done  him  any  harm  ?  This  profound  realist  knew 
too  well  the  opinion  held  about  him  by  scrupulous  con- 
sciences. But  he  despised  their  foolishness,  as  he  de- 
spised the  cowardice  of  the  others.  He  also  knew  that 
after  the  first  moment  of  surprise  is  over  the  printed 
letter  is  of  no  value,  even  when  it  contains  truthful  infor- 
mation. Have  not  the  newspapers,  by  the  abundant 
calumnies  they  contain,  rendered  the  most  indisputa- 
ble truths  inoffensive  ?  Therefore  Ribalta  was  mistaken 
in  preserving  so  carefully  this  useless  tool  of  blackmail 
as  he  was  mistaken  in  believing  that  Fanny  was  too  well 
acquainted  with  her  father's  business  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  existence  of  this  insulting  pamphlet.  Besides,  had 
he  known  the  truth,  that  is  Mile.  Hafner's  complete 
ignorance  of  her  father's  reputation,  he  would  still  have 
shown  the  dreadful  volume.  In  this  revolutionary  man, 
who  was  finishing  his  powerless  existence  among  the 


COMMON   MISERY.  293 

old  books  of  that  miserable  shop,  there  was  a  terrible 
reserve  force  of  envious  cruelty.  Is  there  ever  any  thing- 
else  in  the  souls  of  those  instigators  of  bloody  social 
claims  ?  His  little  brown  eyes  shone  with  a  truly  fero- 
cious joy,  as  he  showed  the  volume  without  letting-  it  go, 
and  repeated : 

"  This  one  is  worth  the  four  hundred  francs." 

"  Don't  look  at  that  book,  Fanny,"  said  Alba,  quickly, 
in  English,  when  she  had  caught  sight  of  the  title  of  the 
volume.  "  It  is  one  of  those  horrid  things  with  which  we 
must  not  even  sully  our  thoughts."  She  had  placed 
herself  between  the  dealer  and  her  friend  while  she 
spoke,  and  she  continued,  sublime  with  indignation  and 
disgust :  "  You  may  keep  this  book,  sir,  since  you  make 
yourself  the  accomplice  of  those  who  have  written  it,  by 
speculating  on  the  fear  you  think  it  can  inspire.  Mile. 
Hafner  has  known  about  it  for  a  long  time,  and  neither 
she  nor  her  father  would  give  a  cent  for  it." 

"  Well,  so  much  the  better,  so  much  the  better,"  said 
Eiibalta,  wrapping  iip  his  volume.  "  Still,  you  may  tell 
your  father  that  I  have  it  at  his  disposal." 

"  Ah  ! — the  wretch  !  "  said  Alba  when  she  and  Fanny 
had  left  the  shop  and  returned  to  their  carriage.  "  To 
dare  to  show  that  book  to  you !  And  there  are  no 
courts  to  condemn  such  actions ! " 

"  You  saw,"  replied  Fanny,  "  I  was  so  surprised  that  I 
could  not  utter  a  word.  That  this  man  should  offer  me 
such  a  book  is  very  sad.  But  he  is  a  poor  man,  no 
doubt  in  need  of  money.  The  horrible  part  is  that 
some  one  could  be  found  to  write  it  against  my  father ! 
My  father  ?  You  cannot  know  his  delicacy  in  all  busi- 
ness dealings.  He  is  the  honor  of  his  profession. 
There  is  not  a  sovereign  in  Europe  who  has  not  testified 
to  the  fact.  You  have  seen  all  his  crosses  ?  Wlien  he 
had  that  lawsuit  in  which  he  was  obliged  to  struggle 
against  all  the  enemies  his  wealth  had  brought  him,  I 
was  a  very  little  girl,  I  remember  how  excited  he  was. 
Think  of  their  touching  his  name  !    And  these  cowards 


294  COSMOPOLIS. 

have  continued,  even  after  the  judges  had  pronounced  a 
sentence  which  glorified  his  honesty — one  of  the  most 
brilliant  justifications  of  honesty  ever  made.  Fortu- 
nately he  is  ignorant  of  this." 

This  passionate  protestation  was  so  touching,  the 
illusions  of  the  generous  child  were  so  sincere,  that 
Alba  iDressed  her  hand  with  even  more  tenderness. 
They  did  not  continue  to  speak  on  this  painful  subject, 
having  met,  almost  immediately  afterward,  in  one  of 
the  shops  of  the  Place  d'Espagne,  the  lady  who  was 
to  chaperone  them.  But  all  the  words,  all  the  gestures, 
all  the  looks  of  the  Contessina,  were  caresses  addressed 
to  her  friend,  her  sister  in  fate,  happier  than  herself, 
since  the  hour  of  suspicion  had  not  yet  come.  When 
that  evening  she  again  saw  Dorsenne,  who  was  dining  at 
Mme.  Steno's,  she  took  him  aside  to  tell  him  of  this 
painful  scene  and  question  him  : 

"  Do  you  know  that  pamphlet  ? " 

"  Only  to-day,"  said  the  writer,  "  Montfanon,  whom  I 
have  finally  seen,  has  just  bought  one  of  the  two  copies 
which  Ribalta  recently  received.  The  old  leaguer  be- 
lieves everything  about  a  man  like  Hafner.  I  am  more 
sceptical,  as  well  about  evil  as  good.  Only  the  account 
of  the  lawsuit  produced  any  impression  on  me,  for  those 
are  facts,  and  the  sentence !  All,  what  a  sentence !  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  in  reading  it,  one  is  glad  not 
to  be  the  son  of  such  a  father " 

"  Yet  he  was  acquitted  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dorsenne;  "  but  it  is  none  the  less  cer- 
tain that  he  has  ruined  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  peo- 
ple. As  well  as  I  can  understand  this  complicated 
story,  he  received  a  rather  important  railway  concession 
for  his  Austro-Dalmatian  Credit.  It  was  to  pass  through 
a  lot  of  countries  in  ria  and  tia  —  Illyria,  Croatia, 
Dalmatia,  Styria.  How  the  Baron  and  his  friends  raised 
the  shares  from  two  hundred  and  forty-five  francs  to  five 
hundred,  seven  hundred,  and  one  thousand,  I  will  not 
explain  to  you,  nor  how  the  whole  road  was  wrecked. 


COMMON  MISERY.  295 

This  is  the  story  of  the  innumerable  enterprises  which 
succeed  in  draining  small  savings  into  the  pockets  of 
jobbers  like  Hafner.  It  is  fully  proved  that  he  himself 
caused  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  stocks.  Don't  ask  me  how. 
I  have  not  studied  the  Bourse  or  Stock  Exchange.  This 
is  a  great  mistake  on  the  part  of  the  novelist  who  wishes 
to  describe  modern  society.  I  should  have  gone  into 
the  stock- jobbing  business  for  two  or  three  months. 
However,  it  is  averred  that  our  friend  squeezed  an 
enormous  sum  out  of  the  credulous  populace,  grazing 
the  penal  code  within  a  hair's  breadth.  The  hair  was 
not  there,  or  if  it  was,  Master  Justus — what  irony  in 
that  name — paid  them  not  to  see  it,  and  the  shai-e- 
holders  were  not  able  to  have  him  convicted." 

"  Then,  according  to  the  tenor  of  this  lawsuit,  it  is 
clear  to  you  that  he  is  a  thief  ?  "  interrupted  Alba. 

"  As  clear  as  that  you  are  there  Contessina,"  replied 
Dorsenne,  "  if  it  be  theft  to  rifle  your  neighbor's  pocket 
and  evade  justice.  But  that  is  nothing.  The  dark  side 
of  the  story  is  the  suicide  of  a  certain  Schroeder,  a 
worthy  citizen  of  Vienna,  who  was  intimately  acquainted 
with  our  Baron,  and  following  the  advice  of  his  excellent 
friend,  put  his  whole  fortune  of  three  hundred  thousand 
florins  into  this  business.  He  lost  all,  and  in  despair 
killed  himself  with  his  wife  and  their  three  children.  In 
Court  they  read  a  letter  from  this  man  to  Justus  Hafner. 
Ah  !  what  a  letter !  " 

"  Heavens !  "  said  Alba,  clasping  her  hands."  And 
Fanny  might  have  read  that  letter  in  the  book  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Julien,  "and  all  the  rest  with  additional 
proofs.  But  be  assured  she  will  not  have  the  volume. 
To-mon-owl  shall  stop  at  that  anarchist,  Ribalta's  shop, 
and  buy  that  last  copy,  if  Hafner  has  not  already  done 
so.  In  ordinary  times  he  would  be  the  man  to  laugh  at 
such  a  thing.  At  this  moment  there  is  this  marriage. 
He  ought  to  dread  the  press,  and  desire  to  suppress 
all  that  might  induce  a  chronicle  of  this  not  very  brill- 
iant page  of  his  career.     The  testimony  of  Schroeder's 


296  COSMOPOLIS. 

brother,  I  remember,  was  even  more  horrible  than  the 
letter." 

In  spite  of  his  continual  affectation  of  cynicism  and 
his  inclination  toward  intellectual  egotism,  Julien  was 
obliging.  He  never  failed  to  render  a  service.  He  was 
not  deceiving  his  young  friend  when  he  promised  her  to 
buy  in  the  dangerous  work.  At  all  hazards  he  went  the 
next  morning  to  the  shop  in  the  Strada  Borgognona, 
carrying  the  twenty  napoleons  asked  by  the  bookseller. 
What  became  of  him  when  the  latter  answered  : 

"  It  is  too  late,  M.  Dorsenne.  The  young  lady  came 
last  evening.  She  had  pretended  before  the  other  not  to 
want  the  volume.  She  wanted  to  bargain,  I  suppose. 
He !  he !  But  she  had  to  pay  the  price.  I  should  have 
asked  the  father  more,  but  we  must  have  some  consider- 
ation for  young  girls." 

"  Wretch ! "  cried  the  novelist,  "  and  you  jest  after  hav- 
ing played  the  part  of  Judas.  Telling  the  faults  of  a 
father  to  his  daughter  when  she  was  ignorant  of  them. 
Never ! — do  you  hear — never  will  M.  de  Montfanon  or  I 
set  foot  in  your  shop,  or  M.  Guerillot,  or  any  of  the 
people  I  know.  I  shall  tell  everyone  of  your  infamy.  I 
shall  write  it  and  publish  it  in  all  the  newspapers  of 
Eome.  I  will  ruin  you— do  you  hear  me !  I  will  force 
you  to  close  this  base  den.     .     .     ." 

"  Patience ! — patience ! "  answered  the  old  man,  without 
getting  angry  at  this  violent  outburst.  "  Some  day  you 
will  be  very  happy  to  claim  6ld  Ribalta's  protection, 
when  the  great  liquidation  of  the  capitalists  takes  place. 
You  will  then  regi-et  that  little  fit  of  French  fury. 
"  Well,"  he  continued,  with  a  depth  of  hatred  which 
plainly  showed  how  little  he  repented  his  cruel  bargain, 
"  I  have  told  nothing  new  to  the  daughter  of  the  Austrian 
— and  even  if  I  did  let  her  know  all,  would  it  not  be 
just  ?  I,  too,  read  that  book.  And  the  two  little  Schroe- 
ders  who  died  on  account  of  that  Hafner,  were  they  not 
as  innocent  as  his  own  daughter  ?  And  so  many  other 
daughters  who  have  been  driven  to  vice  through  the 


COMMON  MISERY.  297 

loss  of  their  parents'  fortunes,  always  on  account  of  this 
gentleman.  It  is  to  the  guillotine  that  I  should  like 
to  send  both  father  and  daughter,  as  they  would  have 
done  in  '93.  Those  were  men !  Those  were  times ! 
But  patience ! — patience !  That  will  begin  again  and 
better.  In  the  meantime  if  that  book  has  made. the 
father  and  daughter  quarrel,  so  much  the  better.  He  ! 
he  !  he ! " 

Dorsenne  fled  without  replying,  horrified  at  this  out- 
burst of  savage  mirth.  Bibalta  had  just  appeared  to 
him  as  the  incarnation  of  all  that  he  most  hated  with 
his  enthusiastic  intellect,  the  modern  revolutionist 
whose  only  programme  is  destruction.  He,  who  had 
taken  as  a  political  motto,  Goethe's  words  when  he  pre- 
vented the  lynching  of  a  thief  at  the  siege  of  Mayence : 
"I  prefer  injustice  to  disorder."  In  ordinary  times,  lie 
would  have  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  Garibaldian's 
declamations.  But  imder  the  circumstances,  this  man, 
becoming  the  blind  instrument  of  avenging  justice, 
paralyzed  him  with  fear.  He  remembered  the  mocking 
phrases  which  he  had  uttered  the  day  before  on  the 
doctrine  of  Providence.  He  shivered  as  he  recognized 
this  sudden  thunderbolt  in  Hafner's  blue  sky  of  happi- 
ness, the  revelation  to  his  daughter  of  his  past,  through 
so  indirect  and  yet  so  natural  a  channel.  A  verse  of 
the  Bible  which  Montfanon  frequently  quoted  in  their 
endless  discussions  about  races,  suddenly  returned  to 
his  memory :  "  Propter  peccata  patrum  filii  afligentur — 
The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  on  the  children." 
If  Fanny  had  read  the  book  she  had  bought,  as  was 
surely  the  case,  she  must  at  that  moment  be  going 
through  the  same  sharp  crisis  of  horrible  trouble  that 
Alba  had  suffered  on  the  night  of  the  anonymous  letter. 
During  the  whole  day  Dorsenne  vainly  tried  to  shake 
off  the  weight  of  melancholy  that  his  visit  to  that  pirate 
of  the  Strada  Borgognona  had  left  upon  his  heart.  The 
thought  of  the  crushing  blow  to  Fanny  filled  him  with 
pity,  and  at  the  same  time  he  dreaded  the  influence 


298  COSMOPOLIS. 

that  this  similarity  in  sorrow  would  have  upon  Alba. 
Would  the  feeling  of  common  misery  increase  or  dimin- 
ish the  unhappiness  of  the  two  young  girls  ?  When,  at 
nine  o'clock,  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  Steno  villa, 
to  give  to  the  young  Countess  a  report  of  his  mission, 
he  felt  himself  singularly  moved?  There  was  no  one 
there  but  the  two  Maitlands  and  two  travellers,  English 
diplomats  on  the  way  to  their  posts  in  the  far  East. 

"I  was  expecting  you,"  said  Alba  to  her  friend  so 
soon  as  she  was  able  to  talk  to  him,  in  a  comer  of  the 
drawing-room.  "I  want  you  to  give  me  some  advice, 
A  tragical  incident  took  place  at  the  Hafners',  last 
night." 

"  It  had  to  be  so,"  replied  Dorsenne.  "  Fanny  bought 
the  book  from  Ribalta." 

'  "  She  bought  the  book !  "  said  Alba  changing  counte- 
nance and  trembling  through  her  whole  body.  "  Poor 
girl ! — the  rest  was  not  enough !    .     .     ." 

"  What  else  ?  "  asked  Julien. 

"  You  remember,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  that  I  spoke 
to  you  about  that  dubious  Noah  Ancona,  that  dishonest 
agent  whom  Hafner  employed  to  sell  out  Ardea,  and 
thus  force  the  marriage.  Well ! — it  seems  that  the  indi- 
vidual did  not  find  himself  sufficiently  paid  for  his  part 
in  the  transaction.  He  asked  the  Baron  for  a  large 
sum,  as  capital  to  found  some  huge  dishonest  business. 
This  the  latter  flatly  refused.  The  other  one  then 
threatened  to  narrate  their  little  operation  to  Ardea, 
which  he  did." 

"  And  Peppino  was  indignant,"  said  Dorsenne,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.     "  That  does  not  seem  like  him !" 

'*  Indignant  or  not,  he  came  last  night  to  the  Savorelli 
Palace,  and  had  a  terrible  scene  with  his  father-in- 
law.     .     .     ." 

"To  obtain  an  additional  dowry,"  interrupted  the 
writer. 

"Then  he  was  very  awkward  about  it,"  said  Alba. 
"Even  the  presence  of  Fanny,  who  appeared  in  the 


COMMON  MISERY.  299 

midst  of  the  discussion,  did  not  stop  him.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  drinking-  too  much,  according-  to  his  habit. 
But  imagine  this  poor  child  awakened  to  the  wretched 
hauling  over — her  destiny,  her  happiness !  If  she  had 
read  the  book  besides?    No,  it  is  too  horrible!" 

"  What  a  family  scene !  "  cried  Dorsenne.  "  Well,  the 
marriage  is  broken  off  ?  " 

"  Not  officially.  Fanny  is  in  bed,  ill  from  excitement, 
Ardea  came  this  morning  to  see  my  mother,  who  has 
also  seen  Hafner.  She  made  a  reconciliation  by  show- 
ing them  what  she  believes  to  be  true,  that  they  have  an 
equal  interest  in  avoiding  all  scandal  and  arranging 
matters.  But  there  is  still  the  sweet  young  girl.  Mam- 
ma wished  me  to  go  this  afternoon,  and  beg  her  to 
change  her  decision.  She  has  declared  to  her  father 
that  .she  wished  never  again  to  hear  the  Prince's  name. 
I  refused.    Mamma  insisted.    Was  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  replied  Julien.  "  AVhat  will  be  her 
life,  alone  with  her  father,  now  that  she  no  longer  has 
any  illusions  about  him "? " 

He  had  no  time  to  say  any  more.  Their  animated 
conversation  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Coun- 
tess. She  feared  that  her  daughter  might  disclose  pre- 
maturely the  imminent  but  not  yet  positive  breaking 
off  of  the  Hafner  marriage.  She  approached  them,  fol- 
lowed by  Maitland,  who  held  in  one  hand  a  little  glass 
filled  with  brandy,  and  in  the  other  a  strong  cigar.  And 
she  called  to  Julien  in  her  sonorous  voice  : 

"  Well,  Dorsenne,  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  our 
old  friend  made  a  correct  guess,  and  that  you  are  mak- 
ing notes  about  my  daughter  for  your  next  novel." 

"I  should  greatly  like  to  do  so,"  replied  the  author,  in 
the  same  jesting  tone,  "but  the  Contessina  is  too  enig- 
matical, too  difficult.  One  must  have  picked  up  the 
brush  of  da  Vinci  to  paint  the  Joconde.     .     .     ." 

He  turned  toward  Lincoln  Maitland  to  pay  this  com- 
pliment, which  tickled  the  vanity  of  the  American  artist 
in  the  most  delightful  way.    After  having  laughed,  the 


300  /COSMOPOLIS. 

hearty  laug-h  of  a  happy  athlete,  he  answered,  speaking 
to  his  lady  love  : 

"  He  is  the  one  I  should  like  to  paint,  and  I  have 
long:  wished  it.  Would  it  not  be  interesting-  to  do  him 
in  an  olive,  almost  greenish,  tone  ?  But  he  never  would 
let  me.  You  ought  to  make  him  come  to  Piove  with 
us  ? " 

"  What  a  good  idea !  "  cried  the  Countess.  "  Well, 
will  you,  Dorsenne  1  "  and  she  looked  at  Julien  with  her 
beautiful  blue  eyes  shining  with  the  single  desire  to 
gratify  this  new  whim  of  her  lover,  expressed  so  un- 
ceremoniously. "  We  start  in  eight  or  ten  days,  Deo 
volente.  I  shall  give  you  a  pavilion  where  you  shall 
write  all  alone,  with  an  immense  library,  that  of  my 
great-grandfather,  who  was  the  friend  of  your  Steudhal, 
and  of  Lord  Byron.  We  have  a  breeze  from  the  Adri- 
atic, morning  and  evening.  Lincoln  has  promised  to 
stay  with  us  until  the  end  of  July.  At  that  date  we 
shall  all  set  out  for  Venice,  to  take  the  baths.  You  will 
see  our  country  life  in  the  Veneto." 

"  The  artist  is  astonishing,"  said  Dorsenne  to  himself, 
as  he  returned  home  on  foot,  through  the  street  of  the 
Twentieth  of  September,  under  the  softest  moonlight  of 
that  Roman  sky,  which  is  so  soft.  "  He  now  gives  invi- 
tations to  the  country  ;  a  little  more,  and  he  will  sit  at 
the  table,  opposite  the  Countess.  Here  is  a  pretty 
prospect  of  a  summer  for  my  little  friend,  that  stay  at 
Piove.  It  is  very  certain  that  the  mother  wanted  me  to 
come.  Has  she  taken  it  into  her  head  that  I  am  a  possi- 
ble husband  ?  Come,  come  !  It  is  time  to  imitate  the 
Ten  Thousand  Greeks,  and  render  myself  illustrious  by 
my  retreat — but  not  before  I  know  the  result  of  the 
meeting  between  those  two  children.  What  looks  and 
what  words  will  they  exchange  ?  That  would  be  a  pa- 
thetic conversation  to  note.  But  there  are  never  any 
witnesses  for  the  most  thrilling  intervicAvs.  They  must 
be  imagined.  This  is  why  art  is  always  inferior  to 
life." 


COMMON   MISERY.  301 

This  touching'  scene  was,  in  fact,  to  take  place  the 
next  day,  and  less  than  twenty -four  hours  after  the  nov- 
elist had  thus  expressed  to  himself  his  regret  at  not 
being  present.  Only,  he  was  mistaken  as  to  the  tenor 
of  the  dialogue  to  a  degree  which  proves,  once  more, 
that  subtlety  of  intellect  will  never  understand  the  sim- 
plicity of  heart.  The  most  painful  heart  dramas  are 
frequently  enacted  in  silence.  It  was  in  the  afternoon, 
at  about  six  o'clock,  that  a  servant  came  to  announce 
Mdlle.  Hafner's  visit  to  the  Contessina,  who  was  at  the 
moment  occupied  in  reading-  over  for  the  tenth  time  that 
deceptive  society  idyl,  the  tender  story  written  by  that 
unfeeling  Dorsenne.  When  Fanny,  her  radiant  god- 
child of  the  previous  week,  entered  the  room.  Alba  was 
able  to  measure  the  trial  which  she  had  just  undergone 
by  the  rapid  and  surprising  change  in  that  noble  and  ex- 
pressive countenance.  At  first  she  took  her  hand  with- 
out speaking ;  then,  as  if  ignorant  of  the  real  cause  of 
her  friend's  illness,  she  said : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.     Are  you  better  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  ill,"  replied  Fanny,  who  did  not 
know  how  to  deceive.  "  I  have  had  trouble,  that  is  all." 
And  looking  at  Alba,  as  if  to  beg  that  she  should  ask  for 
no  explanation,  she  added :  "  I  am  come  to  bid  you 
good-bye." 

"  You  are  going  away  ?  "  asked  the  Contessina. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny ;  "  I  am  going  to  spend  the  summer 
on  one  of  our  estates  in  Styria,"  and  in  a  low  voice, 
"  your  mother  told  you  that  my  marriage  was  broken 
off?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Alba,  and  both  were  ag-ain  silent.  After 
a  few  moments,  it  was  Fanny  who  first  questioned  the 
other : 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  yourself  this  summer  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"We  are  going  to  Piove,  as  usual,"  replied  Alba. 
"  We  shall  perhaps  have  Dorsenne  with  us,  and  surely 
the  Maitlands." 


302  COSMOPOLIS. 

There  was  a  third  silence  between  them.  They  looked 
at  each  other,  and,  without  uttering  another  word,  each 
read  distinctly  in  the  other's  heart.  The  martyrdom 
they  suffered  was  so  similar,  they  knew  it  to  be  so  simi- 
lar, that  at  the  same  moment  each  felt  the  same  pity 
flood  her  heart.  Forced  to  condemn  with  the  most  ir- 
revocable condemnation,  the  one  her  father,  the  other 
her  mother,  each  was  drawn  by  an  impulse  from  the 
depths  of  her  soul  toward  a  friend  as  unhappy  as  her- 
self. Falling'  into  each  other's  arms,  they  broke  into 
sobs. 


XI. 

LAKE  OF  PORTO. 

Alba's  sadness  was  alleviated  by  her  friend's  tears,  so 
long  as  she  held  in  her  arms  that  friend,  quivering  with 
pain  and  sorrow.  But  when  she  was  gone,  and  Mme. 
Steno's  daughter  found  herself  once  more  alone  with  her 
thoughts,  an  even  greater  distress  overwhelmed  her. 
Was  not  this  pity,  shown  to  her  by  her  companion  in 
misery,  an  additional  proof  that  she  was  right  not  to 
believe  in  her  mother  ?  Neither  the  result  of  her  own 
obsers'ation  of  the  Countess's  manner  of  living,  nor  the 
denunciation  of  the  anonymous  letter,  nor  Boleslas's 
duel,  nor  Maud's  note,  nor  that  too  significant  departure, 
had  culminated  in  an  absolute  certainty,  leaving  no 
more  room  for  doubt.  Between  this  complete  evidence 
and  the  half  proof  of  even  the  most  likely  hypothesis, 
there  is  space  for  so  many  halting-places !  Alba  had 
passed  them  all,  and  each  new  incident  had  poisoned 
her  afresh  with  suspicion.  What  she  had  just  divined 
from  Fanny  Hafner's  tears  could  only  increase  the 
weight  of  anxiety.  What  did  this  new  but  beloved 
friend  know?  Why,  and  how  did  she  pity  her,  even  in 
this  violent  crisis  of  her  own  misfortune  ?  The  answer 
to  these  questions  was  too  evident.    The  young  girl  felt 


LAKE  OF  PORTO.  303 

it  SO  cruelly  that  she  put  her  hands  on  her  heart,  as 
though  to  draw  thence  the  unseen  needle  whose  point 
tortured  her,  and  she  groaned  aloud  : 

"  Ah !  If  I  am  mistaken,  let  me  at  least  know  it.  And 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  let  me  know  it,  too !  I  should 
suffer  less ! " 

Alas!  While  she  uttered  this  despairing  appeal  to 
fate,  the  wretched  girl  did  not  guess  that  there  was  in 
Rome,  and  in  her  immediate  circle,  a  person  busied  in 
fulfilling  her  mad  desire.  This  creature,  who  had  not 
shrunk  from  the  infamy  of  an  anonymous  letter,  was 
that  pretty  and  slippery  Lydia  Maitland — that  delicate, 
silent  young  woman  with  the  large,  smiling,  impenetra- 
ble brown  eyes,  and  the  pale,  smooth  skin,  whom  no 
emotion  had  ever  apparently  touched.  The  failure  of 
her  first  attempt  envenomed  her  wrath  against  her  hus- 
band and  the  Countess  to  the  point  of  fury,  concentrat- 
ed, condensed  fury,  coiled  up,  and  slowly,  darkly  await- 
ing an  opportunity  to  strike  anew.  She  thought  she 
had  secured  her  revenge  at  the  time  of  Gorka's  rash  re- 
turn, yet  what  had  been  the  result  ?  To  rid  Lincoln  of  a 
dangerous  rival,  and  imperil  the  life  of  the  only  creat- 
ure in  this  world  for  whom  she  cared !  She  had  spent 
long  hours  at  the  bedside  of  Her  brother,  of  whom  she 
was  passionately  jealous,  with  a  devotion  which  would 
have  been  sublime,  had  not  her  perturbed  soul  found 
there  daily  food  for  hatred.  In  that  sick  room  she  had 
sounded  every  hour,  almost  every  minute,  the  depth  of 
friendship  felt  by  the  wounded  man  for  him  for  whom 
he  had  fought.  Florent  was  grateful  to  Lincoln  for 
having  been  able  to  risk  his  own  life  in  his  stead. 
When  Lydia  told  him  of  Gorka's  departure,  what  a  flash 
of  joy  there  was  in  his  eyes !  And  still  more  when  the 
Countess  communicated  her  plan  of  a  long  stay  at 
Piove,  and  ending  their  summer  at  Venice,  all  together. 
This  sojourn  at  the  Mme.  Steno's  villa  completed 
Lydia's  exasperation.  She  suffered  enough  to  cry  out 
like  a  caged  animal  dashing  against  the  bars,  when  she 


304  COSMOPOLIS. 

helplessly  pictured  to  herself  the  happiness  that  the 
two  lovers  would  enjoy  in  the  intimacy  of  country  life, 
surrounded  by  the  splendid  landscapes  of  Venetia. 
Lincoln  put  these  landscapes  before  her  even  now,  de- 
scribing them  with  his  artist  memory,  from  the  paint- 
ings in  which  Giorgione,  Titian,  and  Bonifazio  have  pre- 
served their  poetry,  their  rich  verdure,  soft  undulations, 
and  blue  distances.  In  the  studio  an  old  copy  of  one 
of  those  fetes  champetres,  attributed  in  turn  to  each  one 
of  the  three  artists,  showed  a  nude  courtesan  near  a 
well,  with  her  magnificent  shoulders,  her  slow  gesture, 
her  blonde  hair  braided  with  pearls,  her  dewy  and  sen- 
suous mouth,  her  supple  limbs — one  would  have  said 
she  was  a  sister  to  Caterina  Steno — whilst  one  of  the 
nobles,  who  played  on  the  viol,  near  this  fascinating 
creature,  had  the  shoulders,  the  build  and  the  insolent 
calm  of  the  American !  Cold  and  nervous,  Lydia  felt 
choked  with  gall  whenever  she  looked  at  this  canvas, 
which  depicted  pleasures  she  could  no  longer  prevent. 
What  weapon  had  she  for  the  pliant  fingers  or  hands 
which  had  not  feared  to  dishonor  themselves  with 
shameful  work  upon  so  many  underhand  communica- 
tions ?  Write  new  anonymous  letters  ?  What  would 
be  the  use  ?  Since  the  duel,  she  had  sent  a  letter  to  the 
Venetian,  who  openly  jested  about  its  infamy  with  the 
insolent  gayety  of  one  too  strong  to  be  shaken.  What 
had  she  caused  by  warning  Alba  ?  A  useless  unhappi- 
ness,  since  the  Contessina  continued  to  dissimulate  and 
to  cover  her  mother's  guilt  with  her  own  innocence. 
No  doubt  the  betrayed  wife  had  full  power  to  provoke 
a  scandal  and  win  a  divorce,  with  proofs  as  undeniable 
as  those  with  which  she  had  overwhelmed  Maud.  All 
that  was  necessary  was  to  carry  to  a  lawyer  the  corre- 
spondence in  her  Spanish  secretary.  But  again,  what 
good  would  it  do  ?  She  would  not  be  revenged  on  her 
husband,  who  would  be  indifferent  about  this  divorce, 
now  that  he  could  make  as  much  money  as  he  wished, 
while  she  would  lose  her  brother.     However  evident 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  305 

Lincoln's  shortcoming's  might  be,  she  was  only  too  sure 
that  riorent  would  prefer  him  to  her.  This  very  pref- 
erence excited  within  her  that  bitterness  of  insane 
wrath.  She  looked  at  every  person  and  at  every  means, 
and  her  instinct,  the  species  of  animal  far-sightedness, 
resembling-  a  ferocious  and  venomous  reptile,  always 
carried  her  thoughts  back  to  Alba.  During  the  inter- 
minable sittings  which  the  enamoured  painter's  enthusi- 
asm incessantly  repeated  and  prolonged,  she,  too,  stud- 
ied the  young  girl's  wan  and  thin  face.  She  suspected 
that  those  blue  eyes,  whose  eyelids  closed  nervously,  hid 
an  indefinable  mystery  of  revolt.  She  examined  the 
half-open  mouth,  whose  corners  had  such  bitter  lines. 
She  followed  with  her  glance  this  visible  perishing  of 
youth,  consumed  by  a  fixed  thought.  No ;  it  was  neither 
the  attitude  nor  the  expression  of  an  accomplice,  nor 
was  it  the  aspect  of  a  person  who  knows.  Lydia  might 
repeat  to  herself  that,  warned  as  Alba  had  been  by  her 
letter,  she  could  no  longer  have  any  doubt  about  Mme. 
Steno's  misconduct.  She  was  convinced  by  innumera- 
ble little  signs  that  the  Contessina  still  doubted,  and 
then  she  concluded : 

"  This  is  the  one  to  strike.  .  .  .  But  how  ?  " 
Yes,  how?  There  was  in  the  hatred  of  this  frail 
woman,  apparently  given  up  to  worldly  trifles,  a  mas- 
culine energy  of  decision  which  is  to  be  found  in  all 
families  of  truly  military  origin.  The  blood  of  Colonel 
Chapron  surged  within  her  and  spurred  her  on  to  action. 
Now,  what  should  she  risk  in  turning  this  action  against 
Alba?  If  the  young  girl  were  already  enlightened 
about  her  mother,  one  more  proof  would  teach  her  noth- 
ing, nor  was  there  any  risk  in  giving  it  to  her.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  the  Contessina  had  not  arrived  at  a  certainty, 
would  not  this  further  decisive  proof  bring  about  an 
exposure  ?  However  bold  the  Venetian  might  be,  it 
would  be  difficult  for  her  to  have  at  the  same  time  at 
Piove  her  daughter  and  her  lover,  if  she  were  once  con- 
victed by  her  daughter,  and  before  witnesses,  if  not  in 


306  COSMOPOLIS. 

an  entirely  public  way.  By  turning-  and  twisting  these 
arguments,  Lydia  finally  elaborated  one  of  those  plans 
of  really  infernal  simplicity,  in  which  what  may  well  be 
called  the  genius  of  evil  is  revealed,  so  much  do  they 
evince  clearness  in  conception  and  rascality  in  exe- 
cution. She  said  to  herself  that  she  must  seek  no  other 
spot  than  the  studio  for  the  irreparable  scene  she  medi- 
tated. She  knew  too  well  the  infatuation  which  possessed 
Mme.  Steno,  to  doubt  that  so'soon  as  she  was  alone  with 
Lincoln,  she  would  shower  upon  him  those  wild  kisses 
of  which  they  spoke  in  their  letters.  The  snare  to  be 
laid  thus  became  very  simple.  It  was  suflficient  that 
Alba  and  Lydia  should  be  found  at  a  post  of  observation 
while  the  lovers  fancied  themselves  alone,  if  only  for  a 
minute.  The  arrangement  of  the  place  furnished  this 
dreadful  woman  with  means  of  creating  for  herseK  in 
all  security  this  spying-place.  Built  two  stories  high, 
the  studio  occupied  half  the  width  of  the  house.  The 
wall,  which  served  to  close  it  on  the  side  of  the  apart- 
ments, ended  in  a  partition  of  colored  glass,  through 
which  it  was  impossible  to  see.  This  window  gave  a 
little  light  to  a  very  dark  corridor  leading  to  a  linen 
closet.  Lydia  spent  several  hours  of  several  nights  in 
cutting  out,  with  a  diamond  of  a  ring,  a  hole  about  the 
size  of  a  ten -cent  piece,  in  one  of  the  panes  of  ground 
glass.  She  took  care  to  execute  this  operation,  worthy 
of  a  convict,  standing  on  a  stool,  so  that  even  if  this  peep- 
hole were  once  discovered,  her  short  stature  would  shield 
her  from  all  suspicion  of  having  worked  at  this  minute 
undertaking,  very  difficult  at  such  a  height.  She  could, 
however,  reach  it  by  standing  on  tiptoe.  She,  too,  must 
be  able  to  look  through  this  opening,  and  the  minuteness 
of  her  calculations  had  gone  even  to  this  detail.  These 
preparations  had  been  completed  for  several  days,  but,  in 
spite  of  the  absence  of  all  scruples  in  regard  to  the  grati- 
fication of  her  hatreds,  she  yet  hesitated  to  employ  this 
method  of  revenge — so  cruel  did  it  seem  to  have  a  mother 
spied  by  her  daughter.    It  was  Alba  herself  who  ex- 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  307 

tinguished  the  last  spark  of  humanity  which  still  lit  up 
this  darkened  conscience,  and  she  did  so  in  the  most  in- 
nocent of  conversations.  It  was  the  evening  of  the  same 
day  on  which  she  had  exchanged  that  sad  farewell  with 
Fanny  Hafner.  More  prostrated  than  usual,  she  was 
conversing  with  Dorsenne,  in  that  corner  of  the  hall  of 
the  Steno  villa  which  had  witnessed  so  many  similar 
talks,  the  only  consolations  of  her  distress.  At  that 
moment  there  were  very  few  people  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  two  young  people  had  at  first  lowered 
their  voices,  not  to  be  heard.  Then,  as  it  happens,  with- 
out perceiving  it,  they  had  returned  to  their  natural  tone. 
Occupied  only  with  what  they  said,  they  did  not  observe 
that  Lydia  approached  them  by  simply  changing  her 
arm-chair,  a  movement  which  allowed  her  to  listen  to  all 
the  phrases  uttered  by  the  Contessina,  while  she  herself 
conversed  with  a  chance  visitor.  Even  if  she  had  not 
been  following  the  latter  for  many  weeks  as  she  had  done, 
she  would  still  have  watched  this  aside,  urged  by  the 
same  instinct  that  prompted  her  to  read  all  the  letters 
that  fell  into  her  hands,  question  the  servants,  finally, 
play  the  spy  under  every  form  and  circumstance.  And 
these  were  the  words  she  overheard  in  a  moment.  In  ut- 
tering them,  poor  Alba  exaggerated  her  thoughts,  she 
who  was  all  justice  and  all  generosity.  But  she  suffered 
and  relieved  her  suffering  by  speaking  with  bitterness 
of  one  whose  image  was  too  closely  associated  with  the 
memory  of  her  own  worst  tormentor.  They  were  speak- 
ing of  that  good  Florent  Chapron,  and  she  replied  to 
Dorsenne  who  was  praising  him  : 

"  What  will  you  have  ?  It  is  true  that  I  almost  feel 
a  repulsion  for  him.  For  me,  he  is  a  being  of  another 
kind.  His  friendship  for  his  brother-in-law  ?  It  is  very 
fine,  very  touching.  But — it  does  not  touch  me.  It  is 
not  human  devotion.  It  is  too  instinctive  and  too 
blind.  I  know  I  am  wrong.  There  is  that  race  preju- 
dice which  I  shall  never  entirely  conquer.     ,     .     ." 

Dorsenne  had  touched  her  fingers,  at  that  moment 


308  COSMOPOLIS. 

under  pretext  of  taking  her  fan,  but  in  reality  to  warn 
her,  and  he  said  to  her,  this  time  in  a  very  low  voice  : 

"  Let  us  move  a  little  further.  Lydia  Maitland  is  too 
near." 

He  thought  he  had  observed  an  emotion  in  Florent's 
sister,  at  whom  he  chanced  to  glance,  while  his  too 
earnest  interlocutress  was  no  longer  on  her  guard. 
But  as  Lydia's  clear  light  laugh  was  heard  at  the  same 
instant,  the  imprudent  Alba  replied  to  him : 

"  Luckily,  she  has  heard  nothing.  See  how  we  can 
cause  sorrow  without  knowing  it".  I  have  been  very 
wrong,"  she  continued,  "  because  it  is  neither  Florent's 
fault  nor  her  own  if  they  have  a  little  black  blood  in 
their  veins,  it  has  been  rectified  with  the  blood  of  a  hero, 
and  they  have  both  been  well  educated,  and,  what  is  bet- 
ter, are  perfectly  good.  Then  I  know  that  if  there  is  a 
great  thought  in  this  century,  it  is  that  which  pro- 
claimed that  all  men  are  brothers.  But  I  feel  so  nervous 
to-night:  Fanny's  troubles  made  such  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  me,  and  when  we  are  wounded,  we  soon  become 
bad.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,  will  you  ?  Of  your 
friend,  Montfanon,  for  instance,  whom  I  should  so  much 
like  to  know.  Has  he  finally  forgiven  himself  for  hav- 
ing being  present  at  your  duel  ?  Now  that  the  marriage 
is  broken  off,  will  he  also  forgive  that  poor  Fanny  ?  " 

This  time  she  had  spoken  even  lower  than  Dorsenne, 
but  too  late.  Besides,  even  if  Florent's  sister  had  heard 
these  new  words,  they  would  not  have  sufficed  to  heal 
the  wound  which  the  first  had  made  in  the  sorest  spot  of 
her  secret  pride. 

"  And  I  who  hesitated,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  who 
thought  of  sparing  her ! " 

This  good-by  was  to  mark,  and  it  did  mark,  the  end  of 
remorse  in  this  vigorous  nature,  possessing  and  apply- 
ing to  the  evil  gratification  of  its  own  malice  some  of 
the  qualities  of  famous  intriguers  in  the  political  and 
social  world.  She  did  not  wait  twenty-four  hours  to 
execute  the  fatal  project  which  was  to  consummate  the 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  309 

misfoi'tune  of  a  poor  defenceless  giv\.  The  next  morning 
about  noon,  she  was  in  the  studio,  seated  beside  Madame 
Steno,  while  Lincoln  ^ave  to  the  almost  finished  por- 
trait the  last  touches  of  his  too  careful  brush ;  Alba  sat 
in  a  large  armchair,  pale  and  absorbed,  as  was  her  wont. 
Florent  Chapron,  who  had  also  been  present  during  part 
of  the  sitting,  had  just  retired,  leaning  on  crutches, 
which  for  greater  safety  he  still  used.  His  absence 
seemed  to  Lydia  so  laropitious  that  she  immediately 
resolved  not  to  let  so  good  an  opportunity  escape,  and  as 
if  fate  wished  to  make  her  infamous  work  more  easy, 
Madame  Steno  also,  helped  her  by  interrupting  the  toil 
of  the  artist  who  had  painted  for  half  an  hour  with- 
out speaking,  and  now  paused  to  wipe  the  perspiration 
gathering  on  his  brow  through  the  violent  effort  of  his 
whole  organism  concentrated  on  one  object. 

"  Come,  my  little  Linco,"  she  said,  with  the  affection- 
ate solicitude  of  a  lady-love  advanced  in  years.  "You 
must  rest.  You  have  been  painting  more  than  two 
hours,  and  such  minute  things.  Only  watching  you,  I 
am  tired  like  the  Sybarite." 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  replied  Maitland,  who,  nevertheless, 
laid  down  his  palette  and  brush,  and  rolling  a  cigarette, 
lit  it;  then  he  continued  with  a  ijroud  smile:  "We 
Americans  have  only  one  good  quality,  but  we  have  it, 
a  power  of  application  now  unknown  in  the  Old  World. 
That  is  why  there  are  certain  professions  in  which  we 
have  no  rivals.  To  fatigue  you  a  little  more  and  amuse 
you  at  the  same  time,  shall  I  describe  to  you  the  life  of 
Dr.  Peyton,  the  dentist  of  the  Rue  Condotti  ?  Think  that 
he  has  in  London  another  office  which  opens  on  the  1st 
of  June  at  ten  o'clock  sharp,  and  closes  on  the  31st  of 
October,  no  less  punctually.  And  you  may  or  may  not 
know  that  his  office  in  Rome  closes  just  as  punctually 
on  the  28th  of  May  at  four  o'clock,  to  re-open  on  the  4th 
of  November  at  ten.  For  twenty-two  years  he  has  not 
missed  a  single  one  of  these  dates.  The  journey  repre- 
sents his  vaction!  This  is  nothing.    He  charges  five 


310  COSMOPOLIS. 

dollars  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  he  often  makes  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  in  a  day.  Calculate  how  many 
hours  that  makes,  and  what  kind  of  work — that  of  a 
watchmaker  repairing-  sensitive  watches!  And  guess 
what  he  answered  when  I  pitied  him  for  spending  his 
life  paving  with  gold  the  diseased  molars  of  Great  Brit- 
ain and  Italy.  *  I  like  my  work.'  Find  me  a  European 
who  could  have  retained  that  nervous  power!" 

"  In  the  meantime,"  replied  Lydia,  "  you  have  taken 
Alba  for  a  Bostonian  or  a  New  Yorker,  and  you  have 
made  her  sit  so  long  that  she  is  quite  pale.  I  must 
amuse  her  and  rest  her.  Come  with  me,  dearest,  let  me 
show  you  the  gown  I  have  just  received  from  Paris,  and 
which  I  shall  wear  this  afternoon  at  the  garden  party  of 
the  English  Embassy.  I  must  consult  you  about  a  final 
arrangement." 

And  with  these  words,  having  forced  Alba  Steno  to 
rise  from  the  armchair,  she  put  her  arm  round  her 
waist  and  kissed  her.  Ah !  if  ever  a  caress  deserved  to 
be  compared  to  the  hideous  embrace  of  Iscariot,  it  was 
that,  and  the  young  girl  too  could  have  replied  in  these 
sublime  words :  "  Friend,  why  betrayest  thou  me  with  a 
kiss  ?  "  Alas !  she  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  this  proof 
of  affection,  and  she  returned  the  kiss  of  her  false  friend 
with  a  gratitude  that  did  not  touch  this  soul  saturated 
with  hatred.  Five  minutes  had  not  elapsed  before 
Lydia  had  put  her  monstrous  project  into  execution. 
Under  pretext  of  reaching  the  linen-closet  more  quickly, 
she  had  taken  the  back  stairs  which  led  to  the  glass-pan- 
elled hall,  along  which  was  the  opening  prepared  to  look 
into  the  studio. 

"  Here  is  something  very  strange,"  said  she,  suddenly 
stopping.  And  pointing  out  to  her  innocent  companion 
the  little  round  hole  that  broke  the  even  surface  of  the 
glass:  "It  must  be  some  servant  who  wanted  to  peep. 
But  peep  at  what?  You,  who  are  tall,  do  examine 
how  it  could  be  done  and  where  it  looks'?  If  it  be 
a  hole  made  purposely,  I  shall  find  the  culprit  and  ex- 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  311 

pel  him  even  thoug-h  the  whole  household  should  have 
to  go." 

Alba  negligently  obeyed  this  perfidious  request,  and 
carelessly  placed  her  eye  to  the  opening.  The  sender 
of  anonymous  letters  had  too  well  chosen  her  time.  So 
soon  as  the  door  of  the  studio  was  closed,  the  Countess 
had  risen  to  approach  Lincoln.  Round  the  young, 
man's  neck  she  had  put  her  arms,  bare  beneath  the 
transparent  muslin  of  her  summer  dress,  and  with  her 
hungry  lips  she  devoured  his  eyes  and  mouth.  Lydia, 
who  had  retained  one  of  the  young  girl's  hands  in  her 
own,  felt  that  hand  agitated  by  a  convulsive  trembling. 
A  hunter  in  ambush,  who  hears  a  rustling  of  the  leaves 
of  the  thicket  where  his  prey  must  pass,  does  not  feel  a 
keener  joy.     She  said  to  her  unhappy  victim  : 

"  What  is  the  matter  1     How  you  are  trembling ! " 

And  she  tried  to  push  her  aside  to  take  her  place. 
Alba,  whom  the  sight  of  her  mother  thus  passionately 
embracing  Lincoln,  iilled  at  that  moment  with  inex- 
pressible horror,  had,  however,  enough  lucidity  in  the 
midst  of  her  suflferings  to  understand  the  danger  of  this 
mother,  whom  she  had  just  surprised,  clasping  in  her 
guilty  arms — whom? — the  husband  of  the  woman  who 
spoke  to  her,  who  asked  her  why  she  trembled  with  fear, 
who  would  look  through  the  same  opening,  see  the  same 
picture !  To  prevent  what  she  thought  would  be  a  terri- 
ble revelation  for  Lydia,  the  brave  child  had  one  of 
those  desperate  ideas,  such  as  are  suggested  by  imme- 
diate peril.  She  struck,  with  the  hand  remaining  free, 
such  a  violent  blow  on  the  glass  panel,  that  it  broke 
with  a  crash,  tearing  her  fingers  and  wrist.  She  then 
fell  back  on  her  companion  with  a  cry  of  pain.  Was  it 
the  wound  on  her  bloody  hand,  was  it  that  of  her  heart 
pierced  by  the  horrible  vision  and  finding  relief  in  this 
groan  ?    The  other  replied  with  angry  words : 

"  Wretch,  you  did  it  on  purpose  ! " 

Saying  these  words,  the  fierce  creature  rushed  to 
the  opening  in  the  glass  pane — too  late !    She  only  saw 


312  COSMOPOLIS. 

Lincoln  standing  in  tlie  middle  of  the  studio  looking 
toward  the  place  where  the  glass  had  been  broken, 
while  the  Countess,  also  standing  within  a  few  paces  of 
him,  cried  out : 

"My  daughter!  What  has  happened  to  my  daugh- 
ter 1    I  recognized  her  voice ! " 

"Don't  be  uneasy,"  replied  Lydia,  with  atrocious 
irony.  "  It  is  Alba  who  knocked  on  the  window-pane  to 
make  you  a  sign." 

"  But  has  she  hurt  herself  1 "  asked  the  mother. 

"  Very  little,"  replied  the  implacable  woman,  with  the 
same  ironical  accent,  and  she  turned  to  look  at  the  Con- 
tessina  with  so  much  malice  that,  agitated  as  she  was 
after  her  discovery,  that  look  froze  her  with  teiTor. 
She  felt  the  sort  of  chill  that  her  friend  Maud  had  had 
in.  that  same  studio  when  the  sinister  depths  of  that 
wicked  soul  were  suddenly  revealed  to  her.  But  she 
had  no  time  to  analyze  this  impression,  or  even  to  be 
fully  conscious  of  it.  Her  mother  was  already  near  her, 
holding  her  in  her  arms — in  those  same  arms  that  Alba 
had  just  seen  around  a  lover's  neck — kissing  her  with 
those  same  lips.  The  mental  shock  was  so  great  that 
the  young  girl  fainted.  Why  was  it  not  given  to  her  to 
pass  away,  in  this  spasm  of  supreme  grief,  before  being 
drawn  on  by  that  same  grief  to  commit  those  tragic  fol- 
lies which  she  is  perhaps  expiating  to-day — though 
there  must  be,  in  the  world  of  eternal  and  perfect  justice, 
some  place  of  rest  and  forgiveness  for  creatures  like  her, 
who  are  victims  of  faults  committed  by  others  and  with- 
out strength  to  bear  their  crosses !  But  no.  She  came 
to  herself  and  almost  at  once.  She  saw  her  mother  as 
wild  with  anxiety  as  she  had  seen  her  just  now  quiver- 
ing with  joy  and  love.  She  again  saw  Lydia  Maitland's 
eyes  fixed  on  both  with  a  too  significant  expression. 
And  as  she  had  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  save  this 
guilty  mother,  she  found  in  her  tenderness  the  strength 
to  smile  upon  her,  to  deceive  her,  to  blind  her  forever 
about  the  truth  of  the  hideous  scene  that  had  just  been 


LAKE  OF   PORTO.  313 

enacted  in  that  comer  of  the  hall,  and  before  that  broken 
window-pane. 

"I  was  frightened  at  the  sight  of  my  own  blood,"  she 
said,  with  her  trembling  grace.  "  And  yet  I  think  these 
are  only  little  cuts.  Look,  I  can  move  my  hand  without 
its  hurting  me." 

She  was  right,  and  when  the  hastily  summoned  doctor 
had  stated  that  no  bits  of  glass  were  to  be  found  in  the 
cuts,  the  Countess  found  herself  so  reassured  that  she 
resumed  all  her  gayety.  Never  had  she  been  in  a  more 
charming  humor  than  in  the  carriage  that  brought  them 
back  to  the  Steno  villa,  than  during  the  breakfast  that 
the  mother  and  daughter  took  together.  And  seizing 
Alba's  arm  to  leave  the  dining-room,  she  said  to  her, 
with  the  playfulness  of  an  elder  sister : 

"  You  will  be  quite  interesting  at  the  garden-party  of 
the  Embassy." 

"  I  shall  not  go,"  quickly  said  the  Contessina,  who 
added :  "  You  know,  the  shock  has  made  me  a  little  ner- 
vous.    It  would  hurt  me  to  see  people." 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  Madame  Steno,  shaking  her 
beautiful  blonde  head  in  a  sonorous  laugh.  "  And  they 
speak  of  heredity !  When  I  have  run  a  little  danger,  it 
stirs  me  up !  I  never  danced  with  so  much  pleasure  as 
the  day  I  came  near  being  killed  in  a  railway  accident. 
I  told  you  about  it,  you  remember  ?  Between  Padua 
and  Mestre.  And  yet  I  had  been  very  near  death.  But 
I  don't  insist.  Each  one  has  his  temperament.  You 
know  my  motto :  Live,  and  let  live ! " 

For  a  soul  forced  by  proof  to  condemn  without  ceas- 
ing to  love  another,  there  is  no  greater  sorrow  than  to 
realize  the  other's  absolute  lack  of  conscience  and  se- 
renity in  guilt.  But  when  it  is  a  mother;  that  is,  a 
creature  whom,  however  criminal,  we  cannot  judge  with- 
out committing  a  mental  parricide,  this  pain  increases 
until  it  becomes  torture.  Pursued  by  the  indelible 
memory  of  that  morning,  which  rent  her  heart  anew 
every  second.  Alba  could  only  have  been  saved  from 


314  COSMOPOLIS. 

despair  by  signs  of  confusion,  straggle,  remorse,  or  re- 
gret in  the  guilty  one.  To  see  her  so  peaceful,  so  gayly 
occupied  with  a  party  of  pleasure,  contrasted  too  forcibly 
with  the  tragic  trial  which  the  young  girl  was  now  un- 
dergoing. She  felt  herself  overcome  by  a  still  heavier 
and  more  depressing  sadness,  which  became  physically 
unbearable.  About  half-past  two  her  mother  told  her 
good-by,  although  the  ftte  at  the  English  Embassy  did 
not  begin  before  five. 

"  I  promised  to  go  and  see  that  poor  Hafner  to-day. 
You  know  his  troubles  have  made  him  ill.  I  would  still 
like  to  arrange  matters.  I  shall  send  back  the  carriage, 
if  you  wish  to  go  out  a  little.  I  telephoned  Lydia  to 
expect  me  at  four  o'clock.     She  will  take  me." 

Detailing  this  very  natural  use  of  the  afternoon,  her 
eyes  were  too  bright,  her  smile  was  too  happy.  She 
was  too  youthful  in  her  light-colored  dress.  Her  feet 
quivered  with  too  much  natural  impatience  under  the 
flexible  patent  leather  of  her  little  shoes.  How  could 
Alba  help  feeling  that  she  was  being  deceived  ?  The 
poor  child  had  an  intuition  that  this  visit  to  Fanny  was 
merely  a  pretext.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  the 
Countess,  to  rid  herself  of  importunate  watching,  had 
made  use  of  this  mode  of  sending  away  her  private 
equipage.  With  women  of  her  rank,  in  Rome  as  in 
Paris,  this  is  always  the  probable  sign  of  clandestine 
adventures.  Nor  was  it  the  first  time  that  Alba  became 
a  prey  to  suspicion  in  the  face  of  certain  mysterious 
disappearances  of  her  mother.  But  she  usually  opposed 
to  this  suspicion  a  voluntary  trust  which  she  no  longer 
found  within  herself  after  the  undeniable  revelation  of 
that  morning.  She  went  to  the  window  to  watch  the 
victoria  drive  away.  The  two  horses  pawed  the  ground, 
and  the  Venetian,  raising  her  graceful  head,  smiled  from 
under  her  pink  parasol  to  her  daughter,  who  looked 
down  at  her.  Ah,  how  surprised  she  would  have  been 
could  she  have  guessed  what  was  said  in  that  glance, 
that  wild  pleading  to  remain,  to  be  there,  and  calm  by 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  315 

her  presence  such  a  delirium  of  pain — not  to  go  where 
she  was  g'oing !  It  was  true  that  she  was  going  to  meet 
Lincoln  at  their  apartment,  and  that  she  was  anticipating 
it  with  delight  while  her  horses  went  toward  the  Savo- 
relli  Palace,  where  she  would  only  waste  five  minutes — 
just  the  time  to  justify  an  alibi.  There  she  would  dis- 
miss her  carriage.  She  would  take  a  hack,  go  to  some 
church,  where,  in  spite  of  all,  she  would  say  a  prayer 
and  ask  forgiveness  for  the  sweet  sin  she  would  after- 
ward commit.  She  gave  herself  up  in  thought  to  the 
expectation  of  pleasure,  which  with  certain  powerful 
natures  like  her  own  already  borders  on  voluptuousness. 
She  did  not  suspect  that  at  that  very  moment  poor 
Alba,  her  Alba,  the  child  whom  she  tenderly  loved  in 
spite  of  all,  was  suffering,  through  her,  the  most  terrible 
of  temptations.  When  the  carriage  had  disappeared, 
the  young  girl's  staring  eyes  fell  upon  the  clear  pave- 
ment, and  there  arose  within  her  a  sudden  instinctive, 
almost  irresistible  desire  to  end  the  mental  agony  which 
consumed  her.  It  was  so  simple !  She  would  only  have 
to  put  an  end  to  life.  If  she  made  a  movement,  only 
one  movement,  a  little  movement,  if  she  but  leaned  over 
the  balustrade  on  which  her  arm  was  resting,  in  a  cer- 
tain way,  just  so,  a  little  farther  forward.  Still  a  little 
more,  and  her  sufferings  would  be  over.  She  would 
never  more  see  Lincoln's  hated  face  beside  her  mother's. 
She  would  never  more  meet  Lydia  Maitland's  eyes,  those 
eyes  that  knew  her  mother's  shame.  She  would  not  go 
to  Piove,  she  would  not  have  to  spend  weeks  and  weeks 
in  that  society  the  simple  thought  of  which  caused  her 
physical  pain  to  the  very  extremities  of  her  hands  and 
feet.  Often  before  she  had  felt  this  longing  for  death, 
which  in  the  children  of  a  suicide  rises  from  the  most 
mysterious  depths  of  their  being.  They  are,  as  a  phil- 
osophical physician  has  said  with  so  much  energy,  be- 
ings predisposed,  in  quest  of  an  opportunity,  and  in  this 
peculiar  trait  heredity  may  be  recognized.  This  thought 
of  voluntary  death  is  not  with  them  a  residt,  the  outcome 


316  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  the  slow  work  of  tlie  reasoning  faculty.  The  slight- 
est trial  reveals  this  thought  in  souls  which  are,  so  to 
speak,  born  with  a  wound  always  ready  to  bleed.  But 
between  this  instinctive  desire  for  death  and  its  execu- 
tion there  is,  to  continue  to  make  use  of  scientific  terms, 
a  psychological  breadth,  a  distance  more  or  less  great, 
which  many  of  these  inheritors  do  not  cross,  and  this 
permits  the  suicidal  tendency  to  be  considered  as  a  cur- 
able disease.  In  return,  when  this  margin  is  exhausted 
and  this  distance  crossed,  the  impulse  becomes  so  strong 
that  it  assumes  a  character  of  fatality  as  irresistible  and 
as  swift  as  a  thunderbolt.  This  was  the  case  with  Alba, 
who,  at  the  moment  of  her  mother's  departure,  suffered  as 
much  as  it  is  possible  to  suffer,  but  she  did  not  dream  of 
death.  But  now,  leaning  on  the  sill  of  the  open  window, 
and  measuring  with  her  eyes  the  height  of  the  two  stories, 
she  felt  herself  drawn  earthward  by  a  fascination,  fever- 
ish, frightened,  yet  almost  sweet.  Yes — it  was  so  simple. 
She  saw  herself  lying  on  that  bright  pavement,  her 
limbs  broken,  her  head  crushed,  dead — dead — ^free  !  At 
this  instant  she  was  seized  with  that  kind  of  delirious 
joy  which  always  accompanies  this  sort  of  suicide.  She 
burst  into  a  nervous  laugh.  She  leaned  more  and  was 
about  to  throw  herself  down,  when  her  glance,  fall- 
ing on  a  person  walking  on  the  sidewalk,  suddenly 
roused  her  from  that  vertigo  whose  strange  charm  had 
so  powerfully  seized  her.  She  threw  herself  back- 
ward. She  rubbed  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  she, 
who  was  not  prone  to  these  mystical  exaltations,  said 
aloud : 

"  Oh,  God !  It  is  you  who  sent  him  to  me !  I  am 
saved."  She  rang  for  the  footman,  and  told  him  that  if 
M.  Dorsenne  called,  he  must  be  conducted  to  Mme. 
Steno's  little  boudoir.  "  I  am  at  home  to  no  one  else," 
she  added. 

It  was  in  fact  Julien  whom  she  had  seen  approach  the 
house  at  the  very  instant  when  she  was  only  separated 
from  the  abyss  by  that  last  quiver  of  animal  repugnance 


LAKE  OF  PORTO.  317 

which  is  to  be  found  even  in  those  most  given  up  to  sui- 
cidal mania.  Do  not  even  lunatics  choose  to  die  one 
way  rather  than  another  ?  She  remained  motionless  for 
a  moment,  trying  to  collect  her  scattered  thoughts.  The 
most  hidden  forces  of  her  being  were  concentrated  in  a 
resolution,  which  to  her  charming  face,  just  now  con- 
tracted by  an  almost  sinister  frown,  restored,  if  not  seren- 
ity, at  least  the  expression  of  hope.  She  was  not  mis- 
taken in  thinking  that  the  young  man  directed  his 
footsteps  toward  this  house.  Her  mother's  pectiliar 
principles  on  such  points  being  conceded — she  had  on 
several  occasions  received  Julien  alone — but  to  go  so  far 
as  to  close  her  door  against  all  others,  she  must  have 
intended  to  have  an  interview  of  extreme  importance. 
When  she  was  told  that,  in  obedience  to  her  orders,  he 
awaited  her  in  the  boudoir,  she  still  appeared  to  hesi- 
tate. 

"  No,"  she  finally  said  to  herself.  "  This  is  salvation, 
the  only  salvation.  I  will  know  if  he  loves  me  truly. 
And  if  he  does  not  love  me  ? " 

She  again  looked  toward  the  window  to  convince  her- 
self that  in  case  this  conversation  did  not  end  as  she 
wished,  the  same  tragic  and  simple  method  would  re- 
main at  her  disposal  to  free  herself  of  the  infamous  life 
she  could  no  longer  accept.  In  this  hour,  when  her 
inner  being  throbbed  with  the  thrill  of  a  supreme  crisis, 
the  two  natures  blended  in  hers  struggled  within  her. 
It  was  the  soul  of  her  true  father,  of  that  tragical  and 
unfortunate  Werekiew,  which  had  drawn  her  to  the  open 
window  and  invited  her  to  die.  It  was  the  energetic 
soul  of  her  mother  which  now  urged  her  on  to  the  bold 
step.  She  meditated  to  escape  her  anguish  by  another 
door  than  that  of  death.  The  influence  of  this  maternal 
heredity  was  so  overruling  at  that  moment  that,  as  she 
entered  the  little  boudoir,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
knew  her,  Dprsenne  found  that  she  resembled  Mme. 
Steno.  Who  knows — for  in  those  moments  when  we 
find  ourselves  at  a  turning-point  of  destiny,  the  slightest 


318  COSMOPOLIS. 

impressions  give  a  direction  to  our  hesitating  will — • 
who  knows  if  this  likeness,  too  suddenly  evoked,  was 
not  the  cause  of  the  answer  he  gave  the  young  girl 
when  she  spoke  to  him  with  the  passionate  solemnity 
of  a  soul  in  anguish  ?  Who  knows  if  the  unconscious 
memory  of  the  misconduct  of  Lincoln's  inamorato  did 
not  sully  in  his  eyes  the  innocent  and  sublime  trust  of 
this  adorable  creature — torturing  phantom  of  his  incon- 
solable regret  to-day  for  her  who  might  have  been  the 
delight  of  his  second  youth,  the  exquisite  and  tender 
flower,  grafted  on  the  sadly  leafless  branches  of  his 
fortieth  year  ?  Ah !  How  Julien  would  like  to  be  again 
beginning  this  conversation,  opened  in  his  habitual 
tone  of  jesting  sentimentality,  and  so  quickly  trans- 
formed into  a  dramatic  dialogue !  On  arriving  at  the 
Steno  villa  he  little  thought  that  he  was  having  his  last 
tete-a-tete  with  his  pretty  and  interesting  little  friend. 
He  had  finally  decided  to  go  away.  To  be  more  certain 
of  not  weakening,  he  had  stopped  on  his  way  at  the  rail- 
way ticket-ofiice  and  taken  a  berth  for  that  very  night. 
Yes,  he  had  come  for  a  farewell,  but  not  such  an  one,  not 
that  parting  which  he  will  remember  as  long  as  he  him- 
self is  left  in  this  world,  where  we  can  do  so  much  harm, 
laughingly,  and  almost  without  knowing  it.  He  had  so 
long  jested  with  love  that  he  seemed  to  think  that  the 
celebrated  proverb  would  never  apply  to  him,  and  it 
was  with  another  jest  that  he  began  the  conversation, 
when,  having  taken  Alba's  hand  to  raise  it  to  his  lips, 
he  saw  that  it  was  bandaged : 

"  What  has  happened  to  you,  little  Countess  ?  Have 
my  laurels,  or  Florent  Chapron's,  prevented  you  from 
sleeping,  that  I  find  you  here  with  the  duellist's  custom- 
ary wrist  ?     Seriously,  how  did  you  hurt  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  leaned  against  a  glass  sash  that  gave  way,  and  the 
pieces  cut  my  fingers  a  little,"  replied  the  young  girl, 
adding,  with  a  half  smile,  "  It  is  nothing  at  all." 

"  What  an  imprudent  child  you  are  !  "  said  Dorsenne 
in  a  tone  of  friendly  scolding.     "  Do  you  know  that  you 


LAKE   OF  PORTO.  319 

ran  the  risk  of  cutting  an  artery,  and  of  causing  a  very 
serious  and  perhaps  mortal  hemorrhage  ?  " 

"  There  would  be  no  great  harm  in  that,"  replied 
Alba,  shaking  her  pretty  head  with  such  a  bitter  smile 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  that  the  young  man 
stopped  smiling,  too. 

"  Don't  speak  in  that  tone,"  said  he,  "  or  I  shall  think 
you  did  it  on  purpose." 

"  On  purpose  ?  "  repeated  the  young  girl.  "  On  pur- 
pose ?     Why  should  I  have  done  it  on  purjDose  ?  " 

And  she  reddened  and  began  to  laugh  in  the  same 
feeble  way  that  she  had  laughed  fifteen  minutes  earlier, 
when  she  was  alone  and  leaning  out  on  the  street. 
Dorsenne  felt  that  she  was  suffering  too  much,  and  his 
heart  shrank.  The  agitation  against  which  he  had 
been  struggling  for  the  past  few  days  with  all  the 
energy  of  the  independent  artist  who  has  long  since 
systematized  his  bachelorhood,  again  took  possession 
of  him.  He  felt  that  he  must  really  put  between  him- 
self and  the  "  Folly,"  his  irrevocable  resolution.  There- 
fore he  answered  his  young  friend  with  his  usual 
gentleness,  but  with  a  certain  firmness  of  tone  that  an- 
nounced a  decision  : 

"  I  have  again  wounded  you,  Contessina,  and  you 
have  just  looked  at  me  with  the  glance  you  give  in  our 
quarrels.  You  must  not  keep  these  for  me,  but  the 
others,  those  of  our  friendship.  Later  on,  you  would 
regret  having  been  cruel  to-day.     .     .     ." 

As  he  spoke  these  enigmatical  words,  she  saw  in  his 
eyes  and  in  his  smile  something  a  little  different  and 
very  indefinable.  She  must  have  loved  him  even  more 
than  she  thought  herself,  because  she  forgot  for  a  sec- 
ond her  own  trouble  and  her  own  resolution,  and  she 
asked  him  quickly : 

"  Have  you  any  trouble  ?  Are  you  suffering  ?  What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Dorsenne.  "  Nothing  is  the  matter.  It 
is  the  hour  that  passes,  the  minutes  that  fly,  and  not 


320  COSMOPOLIS. 

only  the  minutes.  There  is  a  charming  old  French 
odelet  which  you  don't  know,  and  which  begins  : 

" '  Le  temps  s'enva,  le  temps  s'enva  Madame, 

Las,  le  temps  ?    Non,  mais  nous  mous  en  allons ' — 

which  signifies  in  simple  prose,  little  Countess,  that 
this  is  probably  the  last  talk  we  shall  have  together 
this  season,  and  you  would  be  very  naughty  to  spoil  my 
last  visit." 

"  Do  I  understand  you  well  ?  "  said  Alba.  She  knew 
too  well  Julien's  habits  of  conversation  not  to  know 
that  this  mocking,  half  sentimental  manner  always 
served  to  prepare  the  most  serious  phrases  against 
which  his  fear  of  seeming  imposed  upon  armed  itself 
beforehand.  She  folded  her  arms  over  her  breast,  and 
after  a  pause,  continued  in  a  grave  tone  :  "  You  are 
going  away." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  half  drawing  his  ticket  from  the 
pocket  of  his  jacket.  "And  you  see  that  I  act  like  the 
cowards  who  jump  into  the  water.  My  ticket  is  taken, 
and  I  shall  no  more  repeat  to  myself  the  little  speech  I 
have  been  making  for  months,  the  'A  little  while 
longer.  Monsieur  the  Executioner,'  of  the  Du  Barry.  I 
have  told  you  the  anecdote.  In  all  the  bloody  folly  of 
our  great  Revolution,  it  is  the  only  thing  that  touches 
me  a  little.    It  is  so  sincere." 

"  You  are  going  away "? "  repeated  the  young  girl, 
who  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  the  jest  with  which 
Julien  had  disguised  his  own  distress  at  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  sudden  announcement  of  his  departure. 
"  I  shall  see  you  no  more !  But  if  I  asked  you  not  to 
go  away  yet  ?  "  she  continued.  "  You  have  spoken  to  me 
of  your  friendship.  If  I  begged  you,  if  I  implored  you 
in  the  name  of  our  friendship,  not  to  deprive  me  of  it 
at  this  moment  when  I  have  no  one  left,  when  I  am  so 
lonely,  so  horribly  lonely,  would  you  answer  no  ?  You 
have  often  told  me  that  you  were  my  friend,  my  true 


LAKE  OF   PORTO.  321 

friend.  If  that  is  true,  don't  go.  I  repeat  it,  I  am  too 
lonely,  and  I  am  afraid." 

"  Come,  little  Countess,"  replied  Dorsenne,  who  was 
becoming  frightened  at  the  young  girl's  sudden  excite- 
ment. "  Eeally  it  is  not  reasonable  to  put  yourself  in 
such  a  state  simply  because  you  had  a  very  sad  inter- 
view with  poor  Fanny,  yesterday  !  To  begin  with,  it  is 
absolutely  impossible  for  me  to  postpone  my  departure. 
You  force  me  to  give  you  very  plain,  almost  commercial 
reasons.  But  my  book  is  coming  out  and  I  must  be  on 
the  spot  to  start  that  sale,  of  which  I  have  spoken  only 
too  much.  And  then  you  are  going  away  yourself.  You 
will  have  all  the  amusements  of  the  country — your 
friends  from  Venice — some  patito  that  you  must  be  con- 
cealing from  me,  and  at  all  events  that  charming  Lydia 
Maitland." 

"  Don't  speak  that  name,"  interrupted  Alba,  whose 
face  fell  before  that  allusion  to  the  stay  at  Piove! 
"  You  cannot  know  how  much  you  pain  me,  nor  what  a 
monster  of  cruelty  and  perfidy  that  woman  is  !  Do  not 
question  me.  I  would  tell  you  nothing.  But,"  she  con- 
tinued, clasping  her  hands  this  time,  those  poor  little  thin 
hands  which  trembled  at  the  agony  of  the  words  she 
dared  to  utter,  "  do  you  not  understand  that  if  I  speak 
to  you  as  I  do,  it  is  because  I  need  you  to  live."  Then, 
almost  in  a  whisper,  so  choked  was  she  with  emotion, 
"  it  is  because  I  love  you ! "  All  the  natural  modesty  of 
a  girl  of  twenty  rose  to  her  pale  face  in  a  flood  of  crim- 
son when  she  had  made  this  avowal.  "Yes,  I  love 
you,"  she  repeated  with  as  much  feeling,  but  in  a  firmer 
tone.  "  In  this  terrible  world,  a  true  devotion,  a  being 
who  asks  only  to  serve  you,  to  be  useful  to  yow,  to  dwell 
in  your  shadow,  is  not  such  a  common  thing.  You  see 
I  have  no  coquetry  with  you,  I  have  no  pride.  If  you  do 
not  love  me,  all  is  over  with  me,  and  what  do  I  care  for 
pride.  .  .  ?  If  you  love  me — ah  ! — if  you  love  me  !  " 
And  she  closed  her  eyes  as  if  the  very  sweetness  of  this 
idea  gave  her  pain,  "  then  you  will  understand  that  to 


322  C0SM0P0LI8. 

have  the  right  to  give  you  my  life,  to  bear  your  name,  to 
be  your  wife,  to  follow  you,  I  felt  aloud  before  you  at  the 
moment  when  I  was  to  lose  you.  You  will  forgive  me 
if  I  have  been  wanting  in  modesty  for  the  first  and  last 
time.     But  I  have  suffered  too  much." 

She  was  silent.  The  absolute  purity  of  this  charming 
creature,  bom  and  bred  in  an  atmosphere  of  corruption 
in  which  she  had  remained  so  noble,  so  frank,  and  so 
untouched — never  had  it  shone  as  at  this  moment.  Her 
whole  maidenly  and  sorrowful  soul  was  in  her  eyes 
which  pleaded  Julien,  on  her  lips,  which  trembled  at 
having  thus  spoken  ;  on  her  brow,  around  which  floated 
like  a  halo  the  little  blonde  curls  blown  about  by  the 
wind,  which  entered  through  the  open  window.  She 
had  found  a  way  of  taking  that  prodigious  step,  the 
boldest  which  a  woman,  and  particularly  a  young  girl 
could  take  with  such  pure  simplicity,  that  at  this  minute 
Dorsenne  would  not  have  dared  to  touch  even  the  hand 
of  that  child  who  trusted  in  him  so  madly  and  yet  so 
loyally.  She  herself,  in  spite  of  the  flush  upon  her 
somewhat  hollow  cheeks,  felt  no  feeling  of  shame. 
There  was  too  much  frankness  in  her  avowal,  and  she 
had  been  led  to  it  as  she  said  herself,  by  too  much  suf- 
fering. And  above  all  she  hoped.  She  had  faith  in 
Julien's  sympathy,  and  more  than  that,  in  his  love.  On 
many  occasions  during  the  winter  and  the  spring  she 
had  thought  that  if  the  young  man  did  not  ask  her  in 
marriage,  it  was  because  she  was  too  rich.  Alas  !  It  was 
true  that  in  her  presence  he  felt  the  deepest  emotions 
of  which  he  was  capable.  But  it  was  also  even  more 
true  that  this  sympathy  had  never  invaded,  would  never 
invade  the  cold  clear  portions  of  his  being  so  rebellious 
to  all  self-surrender.  It  was  true  that,  with  her  peculiar 
beauty,  that  of  the  Italianized  Slav,  she  pleased  him  to 
such  a  degree  that,  had  he  not  been  in  certain  ways  a 
very  honorable  man,  he  would  with  delight  have  become 
her  lover.  But  it  was  still  truer  that  he  was  interested 
in  her  through  a   curiosity  without   temptation,  and 


LAKE  OF   PORTO.  323 

against  which  he  was  already  in  reaction  for  fear  of  re- 
nouncing his  independence  of  intellectual  passer-by,  the 
sovereign  desire  of  that  nature,  as  wilful  as  it  was 
changeable.  Therefore  this  touching  discourse,  in  which 
trembled  such  tender  distress,  and  each  word  of  which 
was  later  on  to  make  him  weep  with  distress,  produced 
on  him  at  that  moment  an  impression  of  fright  even 
more  than  of  pity.  Yes,  he  was  afraid  of  the  flame  that 
burned  in  the  young  girl's  eyes ;  he  was  afraid  of  the 
emotion  that  was  beginning  to  invade  him  ;  he  was  afraid 
of  the  strange  force  suddenly  displayed  by  that  child  ; 
afraid  of  feeling  himself  carried  in  spite  of  himself  into 
that  atmosphere  of  complete  exclusive  and  violent  pas- 
sion, he  who  took  pleasure  in  the  uncertain  world  of 
shadows  of  semi-happiness  and  semi-misery,  of  attenu- 
ated and  artificial  emotions.  She  was  silent,  and  he  did 
not  reply.  When  he  finally  broke  that  cruel  silence, 
the  sound  of  his  voice  alone  revealed  to  the  unfortunate 
girl  the  uselessness  of  this  supreme  appeal  in  which  she 
petitioned  for  life.  To  exorcise  the  demon  of  suicide, 
she  had  only  her  hope  in  the  heart  of  this  man,  and  the 
heart  toward  which  she  had  mshed  with  such  passionate 
impulse  denied  instead  of  giving. 

"  Calm  yourself,  I  beg,"  he  said  to  her  ;  "  you  must 
understand  that  I  am  shaken,  astonished  at  what  I 
heard.  I  was  so  far  from  thinking  this.  Heavens !  How 
agitated  you  are !  And  yet,"  he  continued  more  firmly, 
"  yet  I  should  deeply  despise  myself  if  I  deceived  you. 
You  have  been  so  loyal  with  me.  I  can  only  recognize 
this  confidence  by  thinking  aloud  in  turn.  Marry  you? 
Ah !  That  would  be  the  most  charming  dream  of  happi- 
ness, if  truth  did  not  forbid  this  dream.  To  accept  the 
life  of  a  young  girl  such  as  you,  it  is  necessary  to  be 
able  to  promise  her  one's  own  whole  life,  honestly,  sin- 
cerely. I  cannot  make  this  promise,  because  I  could 
not  keep  it.  Poor  child !  " — and  his  own  voice  became 
almost  bitter  as  he  uttered  these  words,  "  you  do  not 
know  me.    You  do  not  know  the  nature  of  an  author 


324  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  my  race.  To  unite  your  destiny  to  mine  would  be  a 
worse  martyrdom  for  you  then  your  loneliness  of  to- 
day. See,  I  came  to  this  house  with  so  much  joy,  be- 
cause each  time  I  could  say  to  myself  that  I  would  not 
return.  This  confession  is  not  romantic,  but  it  is  true. 
If  my  feeling-  became  a  tie,  an  obligation,  a  fixed  frame 
in  which  I  must  move,  a  circle  of  habits  imprisoning 
me,  I  should  have  but  one  thought — that  of  flight.  The 
engagement  for  my  whole  life  ?  No,  no.  I  could  not 
endure  it.  There  are  passing  souls  as  there  are  migrat- 
ing birds,  and  I  am  one  of  these,  and  you  yourself  will 
understand  to-morrow,  presently,  and  you  will  remem- 
ber that  I  spoke  to  you  as  a  man  of  honor,  who  would 
be  in  despair  if  he  thought  he  had  unwittingly  increased 
the  sorrows  of  your  life,  when  his  only  wish  would  have 
been  to  lighten  them.  Heavens !  What  can  I  do !  "  he 
cried,  seeing  as  he  spoke  two  tears  well  into  the  young 
girl's  eyes,  which  she  did  not  even  wipe  away.  They 
were  no  more  the  prolonged  and  tender  sobs  of  the  day 
before,  when  she  fell  into  the  arms  of  Fanny  Hafner, 
her  companion  in  misery,  having  in  her  sorrow  the 
sweet  feeling  of  a  given  and  received  compassion.  No ; 
these  big  heavy  tears  which  rolled  down  her  burning 
cheeks  without  a  cry,  without  a  sigh,  were  the  drops  of 
that  sweat  of  agony  drawn  from  her  by  absolute,  total, 
and  irremediable  despair.  It  was  the  farewell  to  life  of 
a  young  soul  which,  having  found  no  echo  to  its  cry  of 
agony,  weeps  a  last  time,  weeps  over  its  condemned 
youth,  over  itself.  And  Julien  repeated  in  terror,  "What 
can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Go  away,"  she  answered,  "  leave  me — I  bear  you  no 
ill-will,  I  am  rather  grateful  to  you  for  not  having 
deceived  me.  But  your  presence  is  too  painful  to  me. 
I  am  ashamed  of  having  spoken,  now  that  I  know  you 
do  not  love  me.  You  are  right  to  leave  Rome — you 
should  have  gone  sooner.  Don't  defend  yourself,"  she 
continued,  preventing  his  interrupting  her,  "I  accuse 
you  of  nothing!    You  have  never  deceived  me,  never 


LAKE   OF    PORTO.  326 

led  me  to  believe  that  you  felt  for  me  anything  beyond 
that  slenderest  friendship.  I  was  mad.  Don't  punish 
me  for  it  by  remaining  any  longer.  After  the  conver- 
sation we  have  just  had,  my  honor  demands  that  we 
should  never  speak  again." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Julien  after  a  new  pause.  He 
took  his  hat  from  the  table  where  he  had  laid  it  at  the 
beginning  of  this  visit  so  brief — suddenly  terminated  by 
a  burst  of  sentiments  so  strange.  The  two  young  people 
looked  at  each  other  a  last  time.  Ah !  How  often  he 
was  to  see  her  thus,  white  as  a  corpse,  with  an  anguished 
expression  round  her  mouth,  her  face  still  damp  with 
the  tears  that  flowed  no  longer,  rigid  and  tragic  in  her 
light  spring  raiment,  her  arms  folded  over  her  slender 
bosom,  so  as  not  to  give  him  her  hand.  He  did  not  offer 
his  own.  He  understood  that  the  wretched  child  had 
spoken  the  truth.  If  she  had  confessed  without  shame 
the  feelings  that  she  thought  were  reciprocated,  to  have 
divulged  them  now  covered  her  with  confusion.  He 
said  to  her,  "Good-by."  She  bowed  her  blonde  head 
without  replying.  Poor  phantom  of  the  gentlest  and 
most  innocent  of  victims,  will  he  whom  with  that  look 
you  saw  depart  ever  forget  it  ? 

The  door  was  closed.  Alba  was  again  alone.  Half  an 
hour  later  when  the  footman  came  to  take  her  orders 
about  the  carriage  which  the  Countess,  faithful  to  her 
promise,  had  sent  to  her,  he  found  her  standing  motion- 
less in  front  of  the  window,  where  she  had  placed  her- 
self to  see  Dorsenne  depart.  There  she  had  been  again 
seized  with  that  temptation  to  suicide.  She  had  again 
felt  with  irresistible  force  the  magnetic  attraction  of 
death.  Life  had  once  more  appeared  to  her  as  something 
too  vile,  too  useless,  too  unbearable  to  be  any  longer 
accepted.  Hencefoi-th,  she  could  never  kiss  her  mother 
without  a  thrill  of  horror.  Of  her  two  friends,  one  was 
forever  separated  from  her,  the  other  was  as  misei-able 
as  herself.  She  had  just  felt  the  painful  impression 
that  the  man  in  whom  she  had   placed  her  last  mad 


326  COSMOPOLIS. 

hope,  had  no  heart,  or  at  least  had  none  for  her.  What 
she  had  read  in  Lydia's  devilish  spirit  made  the  pros- 
pect of  the  stay  at  Piove  so  odious  that  the  very 
thought  paralyzed  her  with  honor.  The  hereditary 
tendency  manifested  by  the  impulse  of  awhile  ago  had 
already  taken  form  as  the  determination  of  a  mind 
bleeding  from  an  incurable  wound.  It  is  the  second 
and  the  most  dangerous  phase  in  the  progress  of  that 
moral  disease  known  as  suicide.  It  increases  with 
sharp  attacks,  when  circumstances  combine  with  native 
predisposition.  Alba  said  to  herself  no  longer  as  she 
did  awhile  ago  :  "  How  sweet  it  would  be  to  die ! "  but 
"  I  wish  to  die !  "  Then,  leaning  out  of  the  window,  two 
memories  came  to  her  mind — that  of  a  young  girl  from 
Naples,  one  of  her  tennis  partners  whom  Dorsenne 
named  "  little  Herodias,"  on  account  of  her  likeness  to 
one  of  Luini's  figures,  who,  the  past  winter,  in  an  attack 
of  brain  fever,  had  thrown  herself  out  of  a  window.  It 
was  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  body  had  been 
found  by  market  gardeners.  In  order  to  cover  it  at 
once,  they  rang  at  the  door  of  a  neighboring  hotel,  and 
the  first  shroud  of  that  adorably  beautiful,  elegant  and 
refined  creature  had  been  one  of  the  wine-stained  table- 
cloths of  the  table  d'hote.  Alba,  who  had  loved  this  girl 
of  eighteen,  remembered  the  tears  that  the  wretched 
mother — a  noble,  saintly  woman — ^had  shed,  and  how 
the  detail  of  this  agony  in  the  street  had  added  a 
brutal  character  to  this  already  horrible  episode.  On 
the  other  hand.  Alba  evoked  the  image  of  a  second 
friend,  a  German  baroness  living  in  Italy,  and  who  had 
also  killed  herself  two  years  before — by  jumping  from 
a  boat  into  the  water  of  a  little  lake  in  the  Roman 
campagna — ^Lake  Porto.  She  was  found  floating  like 
Ophelia,  having  suffered  no  multilation,  asleep  on  the 
moving  bed  of  the  waves,  and  pious  hands  had  car- 
ried her  off,  and  for  this  desperate  woman  no  profana- 
tion had  mingled  with  the  consoling  charm  of  death. 
When  this  mania  of  suicide  invades  the  whole  being, 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  327 

similar  imaginiiigs  suffice  to  determine  the  nature  of 
the  means  to  be  employed,  particularly  when  the  form 
of  this  suicide  is,  as  it  were,  written  beforehand  in  the 
mystery  of  its  heredity.  Thus  can  be  explained  these 
strange  contagious  imitations  which  have  given  a  fune- 
real celebrity  to  certain  j)laces,  notably  that  sentry-box 
in  the  camp  at  Boulogne,  which  the  emperor  was 
obliged  to  have  burned.  Several  soldiers  had  killed 
themselves  there,  one  after  the  other.  A  similar  fasci- 
nation took  possession  of  the  young  girl.  The  carriage 
was  at  her  disposal.  Through  the  Porte  Portese  and 
along  the  Tiber,  it  would  take  about  an  hour  and  a  half 
for  the  spirited  horses  of  the  Countess  to  drive  to  the 
little  lake.  Moreover,  to  avoid  the  curiosity  of  the 
servants,  she  had  the  pretext  that  one  of  the  great 
Roman  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  the  Princess  Tor- 
Ionia,  owns  a  lovely  villa  on  the  borders  of  that  lake. 
She  hastily  ran  up  to  put  her  hat  on  her  head.  With- 
out writing  a  word  of  farewell  to  anyone,  without  cast- 
ing a  glance  at  the  objects  among  which  she  had  grown 
up  and  suffered — so  much  was  she  a  prey  to  the  dance 
of  death — she  ran  down  the  steps,  and,  giving  the  coach- 
man the  name  of  this  villa : 

"  Go  quickly,"  she  insisted.  "  I  am  already  late." 
Lake  Porto  is,  as  its  name  indicates,  the  port  of  the 
old  Tiber, — the  one  by  which  the  emperor  Trajan  wished 
to  replace  Ostia,  already  nearly  filled  up  by  alluvial  de- 
posits in  the  time  of  Augustus.  The  road,  which  comes 
out  of  the  Transtevere,  follows  the  river  that  rolls  its 
brackish  waters,  yellow  with  the  muds  and  sands  of  the 
Apennines,  through  a  plain  strewn  with  ruins  and  dent- 
ed with  bare  hills.  Once  the  church  of  Saint  Paul  is 
out  of  sight,  the  desert  begins,  more  desolate  even  than 
the  landscape,  in  which  had  taken  place  Gorka's  double 
duel  with  Florent  Chapron  and  Dorsenne,  for  the  line 
of  the  Alban  mountains  does  not  rise  so  gracefully  close 
to  the  horizon.  At  this  moment  of  the  year  the  flocks 
are  already  driven  to  the  heights,  on  account  of  the  fever 


328  COSMOPOLIS. 

that  reigns  supreme  on  this  soil,  filled  with  salt-water 
infiltrations,  and  almost  rotten  with  stagnant  water, 
which  the  most  energetic  works  have  only  succeeded  in 
partially  draining.  Clumps  of  eucalyptus  here  and  there, 
groups  of  umbrella  pines  above  some  crumbling  walls — 
that  was  all  the  vegetation  that  met  Alba  Steno's  eyes. 
But  this  horizon  accorded  too  well  with  the  moral  deso- 
lation she  carried  within  her  for  this  sorrowful  aspect 
of  things  during  her  last  ride  not  to  do  her  good.  Be- 
sides, from  the  moment  when  the  carriage  began  to 
move  she  felt  that  strange  sort  of  calmness,  almost  of 
serenity,  which  so  often  accompanies  suicide,  particu- 
larly when  it  is  the  end  of  a  long  mental  malady,  of  one 
of  those  anxious  melancholies  which  surround  us  with  a 
torturing  circle  of  fixed  ideas.  It  seems  that  the  soul, 
like  the  body,  has  onl}"^  a  certain  capacity  for  suffering, 
and  that  this  limit  once  passed  it  reaches  a  momentary 
anaesthesia  where  it  can  no  longer  feel  even  the  truth  of 
the  sorrows  which  determine  it  on  death.  The  diverse 
personages  who  had  crossed  the  drama  of  her  life  to 
drive  her — scene  upon  scene — to  the  final  resolution 
toward  which  she  was  going  the  rapid  pace  of  two  fast 
horses,  seemed  to  the  dying  girl  singularly  far  removed. 
How  far  away  were  the  brutal  Lincoln  and  the  perfidi- 
ous Lydia  Maitland,  loyal  Maud  Gorka,  and  pious  Fan- 
ny Hafner  ;  even  her  mother,  even  Dorsenne  no  longer 
seemed  real  to  her,  though  so  few  hours  and  even  min- 
utes separated  her  from  the  moment  when  they  had 
struck  her  the  blow  that  had  consummated  her  misery. 
It  was  not  the  lucid  somnambulism  of  which  certain 
criminals  have  spoken  ;  no,  but  an  inward  relaxation  that 
went  almost  to  sweetness,  and  which  at  certain  moments 
brought  to  her  no  longer  trembling  lips  a  smile  of 
peace.  This  sensation  that  she  was  approaching  irrevo- 
cable peace — endless  sleep,  where  she  would  suffer  no 
more,  increased  when  she  had  alighted  from  the  car- 
riage, and  walking  around  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Tor- 
Ionia,  she  found  herself  beside  the  little  lake,  so  grand 


LAKE  OF  PORTO.  329 

despite  its  small  size,  on  account  of  the  wild  beauty  of 
the  landscape.  Motionless,  surprised  even  at  this  last 
moment  by  the  magic  of  that  sudden  vision,  she  stopped 
among-  the  reeds  with  their  pink  flowers,  between  the 
twisted  blades  of  two  aloes,  to  look  at  that  lake  which 
was  to  be  her  grave,  and  she  murmured  : 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  !  " 

The  surface  of  the  lake  extended  before  her  so  per- 
fectly peaceful  that  hardly  did  a  slow,  silent  ripple  break 
the  smooth  expanse  of  thick,  heavy,  black  water,  invaded 
by  reeds,  and  on  which  the  long  leaves  of  aquatic  plants 
displayed  their  dark  verdure.  And  all  around  the  young 
girl  was  a  field  of  flowers — a  forest  of  pink  reeds,  while 
on  the  other  side  rows  of  Italian  pines  stood  outlined, 
flattening  their  black  summits  against  an  ultramarine 
blue  sky,  where  the  sun  was  already  beginning  to  set,  as 
it  was  already  more  than  five  o'clock.  A  vague  mist 
floated  over  the  lake — a  mist,  no — a  vapor  of  vapors,  just 
enough  to  frost  over  the  almost  too  metallic  surface  of 
the  dead  water.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  shook  the  slen- 
der reeds,  from  the  midst  of  whose  stems  arose  the  innu- 
merable croakings  of  the  tree-frogs,  hidden  in  the  grass. 
Sometimes  one  of  these  animals  plunged  into  the  lake. 
The  sound  of  a  stone  falling  into  the  water — a  splash — 
a  larger  ripple — and  the  mirror  of  the  vast  pond  re- 
sumed the  aspect  of  charm,  at  once  sinister  and  delight- 
ful. At  other  moments  crows  flew  into  the  air  with  great 
cries.  They  went  toward  a  meadow  on  the  left  to  which 
led  an  alley,  bordered  with  roses,  by  which  Alba  had 
come,  and  where  she  had  mechanically  gathered  a  few  of 
these  flowers,  which  she  had  fastened  in  her  dress  with 
a  last  instinct  of  youth  and  coquetry,  even  in  death. 
This  clear,  late  afternoon,  this  lake,  almost  fantastically 
motionless,  this  tragical  horizon,  with  an  I  know  not 
what  unchangeable  character  spread  over  all  things — 
all  in  the  melancholy  setting  of  that  final  moment,  was 
in  harmony  with  the  young  girl's  thoughts,  and  this  so 
completely,  that  she  stopped  in  rapture.    There  was  in 


330  COSMOPOLIS. 

the  damp  atmosphere  which  gradually  penetrated  her,  a 
charm  of  deadly  somnolence  to  which  she  abandoned 
herself  dreamily,  with  an  almost  physical  voluptuous- 
ness, her  will  paralyzed,  drinking  in  through  her  whole 
being  the  feverish  emanations  of  that  spot,  one  of  the 
most  fatal  on  the  whole  of  that  dangerous  coast,  at  that 
hour  and  season,  until  a  cold  chill  suddenly  shook  her  be- 
neath the  thin  material  of  her  summer  dress.  Her  shoul- 
ders contracted,  her  teeth  closed,  and  this  impression  of 
sudden  discomfort  was  for  her  the  signal  to  act.  She  took 
another  alley  of  rose-trees  in  bloom  to  reach  a  point  of 
the  shore,  which  had  been  cleared  of  vegetation,  and 
where  she  saw  the  outline  of  a  boat.  She  unfastened  it, 
and  managing  the  heavy  oars  with  her  delicate  hands, 
she  soon  reached  the  middle  of  the  lake. 

When  she  came  to  the  spot  which  she  thought  the 
deepest  and  most  favorable  to  her  design  she  stopped 
rowing.  There,  with  a  childish  care  which  made  her 
smile,  so  much  instinctive  order  did  it  betray  in  this  sol- 
emn moment,  she  arranged  her  hat,  her  parasol  and  her 
gloves  on  one  of  the  seats  of  the  boat.  To  row  with  the 
heavy  oars  she  had  made  a  violent  effort  and  was  all  in 
a  perspiration.  A  second  chill  seized  her  as  she  was  ar- 
ranging these  little  articles  (sharp,  cold,  and  so  deep  this 
time),  that  with  arrested  gesture  she  remained  motionless, 
dreaming  vaguely,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  water,  whose  un- 
dulations rippled  more  and  more  slowly  around  the  bark. 
At  this  last  moment  she  felt,  not  her  love  of  life,  but  her 
tenderness  for  her  mother  returning  to  her  heart.  All 
the  details  of  these  little  events  which  were  to  follow  her 
suicide  now  pictured  themselves  to  her  mind.  She  saw 
herself  falling  into  that  deep  water  which  would  close 
over  her  head.  For  her  all  suffering  would  be  over — 
but  for  Madame  Steno  ? — She  saw  the  coachman  uneasy 
at  her  absence,  ringing  at  the  gate  of  the  Torlonia  villa, 
and  the  servants  in  quest  of  her.  The  unfastened  boat 
would  tell  plainly  enough  where  she  must  be  sought  and 
what  had  been  her  deed.     The  Countess  would  know 


LAKE   OF   PORTO.  331 

that  she  had  killed  herself.  She  would  want  to  know 
the  cause  of  this  desperate  end.  Lydia  Maitland's  ter- 
rible face  rose  before  the  young-  girl.  She  understood 
that  this  woman  hated  her  enemy  too  much  not  to  en- 
lighten her  about  the  horrible  circumstances  which  had 
preceded  the  suicide.  That  exclamation,  so  simple  and 
so  significant  in  its  meaning,  that  she  had  hissed  with 
so  ferocious  an  accent :  "  You  did  it  on  puri)ose !  "  re- 
turned to  Alba's  memory.  She  saw  her  mother  hearing 
that  her  daughter  had  guessed  all,  seen  all.  She  had 
admired  this  mother  so  much.  She  had  been  so  spoiled 
and  caressed  by  her  !  She  still  loved  her  so  dearly !  As 
she  could  not  have  endured  the  thought  of  living  in  the 
intimacy  of  the  Maitlands  after  what  she  had  seen  with 
her  own  eyes  through  the  peep-hole  of  the  glass  panel, 
so  she  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  the  weight  of  re- 
morse that  her  suicide,  thus  commented  on,  would  place 
on  the  conscience  of  this  mother,  so  adored.  The  memory 
of  Dorsenne  also  returned  to  her  at  the  same  instant,  and 
the  thought  of  what  the  young  man  would  feel  at  the 
news  of  this  suicide  which  had  so  soon  followed  their 
conversation.  He  would  feel  alone  responsible,  and  that 
would  not  be  just.  .  .  .  Then,  as  a  third  chill  shook 
her  from  head  to  foot,  Alba  began  to  think  that  here  was 
another  chance  of  dying,  quite  as  certain  as  the  other, 
and  that  no  one  would  suspect  that  her  death  was  volun- 
tary. She  remembered  that  she  was  in  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  spots  of  the  Roman  Campagna ;  that  she  had 
known  persons  carried  away  in  a  few  hours  by  pernicious 
fever,  contracted  in  si  miliar  places ;  notably,  one  of  her 
favorite  friends,  one  of  the  Bonapartes  living  in  Rome, 
can-ied  off  so  swiftly — for  hunting  there  while  in  a  per- 
spiration !  If  she  tried  to  take  the  same  disease  on  pur- 
pose? So  she  rowed  again  to  become  more  heated. 
Then,  when  she  felt  her  brow  moist  with  the  second 
effort,  she  \iufasfcened  her  jacket  and  her  chemisette,  she 
laid  bare  her  neck,  her  virginal  breast,  and  lay  back  in 
the  boat  allowing  the  damp  air  to  envelop  her,  to  bathe 


383  COSMOPOLIS. 

her,  to  chill  her,  imploring-  the  entrance  into  her  blood 
of  that  fatal  and  liberating  germ,  possessed  at  the  same 
time  with  an  intoxication  and  a  languor.  How  long  did 
she  remain  thus,  half-fainting,  half-dying  in  that  atmos- 
phere more  and  more  laden  with  poison  as  the  sun  went 
lower  ?  The  flight  of  time  was  only  marked  for  her  by 
the  oftener  repeated  sensation  of  the  chill  which  changed 
into  intense  cold,  and  in  a  dark  and  painful  delirium 
she  felt  that  the  tenible  fever  was  insinuating  itself  into 
her,  and  that  her  wish  was  gratified.  A  call  which  she 
heard  made  her  sit  up  and  resume  the  oars.  It  was  the 
coachman  who,  not  seeing  her  return,  had  left  his  car- 
riage and  hailed  the  boat.  When  she  stepped  ashore  and 
he  saw  her  so  pale,  this  man  who  had  been  for  years  in 
the  employment  of  the  Countess,  could  not  help  saying 
to  her  with  the  familiarity  of  an  Italian  servant : 

"  You  have  taken  cold,  signorina,  and  this  place  is 
so  unhealthy.     .     .     ." 

"  In  fact,"  she  replied,  "  I  have  had  a  little  chill.  It 
will  be  nothing.  Let  us  go  quickly  home.  Above  all, 
don't  say  that  I  went  in  the  boat,  I  should  be  too  much 
scolded." 


XII. 

EPILOGUE. 


"  And  it  was  immediately  after  this  conversation  that 
the  poor  child  set  out  for  her  expedition  to  Porto,  where 
she  took  the  pernicious  fever  ?  "  asked  Montfanon. 

"  At  once,"  replied  Dorsenne,  "  and  the  horrible  part 
for  me  is  that  I  cannot  doubt  but  that  she  went  thither 
on  purpose.  I  had  been  so  upset  by  our  conversation 
that  I  did  not  feel  the  strength  to  leave  Rome  that  even- 
ing as  I  had  announced  to  her.  After  many  hesitations 
— you  will  now  understand  them  after  what  I  have  told 
you — I  returned  to  the  Steno  villa,  at  about  six  o'clock. 


EPILOGUE.  333 

To  speak  to  her,  but  about  what  ?  Did  I  know  1  It 
was  very  foolish.  For  her  innocent  confession  could 
have  but  two  answers — the  one  I  had  given  her  or  a 
marriage  proposal.  Ah !  I  did  not  reason  so  far.  I 
was  afraid.  Of  what  ?  I  did  not  know  any  more.  I 
reached  the  villa,  where  I  found  the  Countess,  gay  and 
radiant  as  usual,  in  a  tete-a-tete  with  her  American. 
'  That  is  my  daughter — exactly,'  she  replied  to  my  first 
question.  '  She  refused  to  come  to  the  English  Em- 
bassy, where  she  would  have  amused  herself,  to  go  out 
alone  and  dream  in  the  country.  If  you  will  wait  for 
her?  ' — and  I  waited  until  half -past  seven,  talking  like 
an  ordinary  caller,  when  I  felt  the  desire,  almost  the 
necessity  to  shriek  out  aloud  to  that  unconscious  wom- 
an, who  did  not  even  note  the  flight  of  time  :  '  But, 
wretched  creature,  your  child  is  suffering  on  account  of 
you  and  of  your  lover.  She  has  fled  from  the  house  to 
flee  from  you  and  you  do  not  even  suspect  it ! '  Finally 
she  did  begin  to  be  uneasy,  and,  I  seeing  no  one  return, 
took  leave  with  my  heart  so  oppressed  that  I  might  al- 
most believe  in  presentiments.  Alba's  carriage  stopped 
before  the  door  just  as  I  was  going  out.  She  was  pale, 
of  a  dark,  almost  green  pallor,  which  made  me  say  as  I 
accosted  her  :  '  Where  have  you  been,'  as  if  I  had  the 
right  to  do  so.  Her  mouth,  already  so  pallid,  quivered 
my  answer.  When  I  knew  where  she  had  spent  that 
sunset  hour  and  near  what  lake,  perhaps  the  most  un- 
healthy in  the  neighborhood  :  '  What  a  piece  of  impru- 
dence,' I  said  to  her.  All  my  life  I  shall  remember 
the  glance  she  gave  me  as  she  replied :  '  Say  what  wis- 
dom, and  wish  that  I  may  have  taken  the  fever  and  may 
die  of  it.'  You  know  the  rest  and  how  her  wish  was 
only  too  well  fulfilled.  She  had  taken  the  fever,  and  so 
violently  that  she  was  carried  off  in  less  than  six  days. 
And  after  her  last  words  I  can  have  no  doubts  about 
the  matter.  It  was  a  suicide.  Before  dying  she  made  a 
last  appeal  to  me.  I  did  not  understand  it.  And  she 
went  in  search  of  death  in  the  only  form  which  would 


334  COSMOPOLIS. 

not  permit  the  world  and  her  mother  to  g-uess  the  truth. 
I  could  have  prevented  it  and  I  did  not  do  it," 

"  And  this  mother  ?  "  asked  Montfanon,  "  did  she 
finally  understand  ?  " 

"Absolutely  nothing,"  replied  Dorsenne.  "It  is  in- 
conceivable, but  it  is  so.  Ah !  she  is  truly  the  worthy 
friend  of  that  thief  Hafner,  who,  in  spite  of  his  discom- 
fiture, did  not  lose  his  bearings  after  the  breaking  off 
of  his  daughter's  marriage.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he 
has  just  sold  the  Castagna  Palace  to  an  anonymous  so- 
ciety, who  will  turn  it  into  a  hotel.  I  laugh,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  not  to  weep,  for  I  am  coming  to  the  most  heart- 
rending part.  Do  you  know  where  I  saw  Alba  Steno's 
face  for  the  last  time  ?  It  was  three  days  ago,  the  day 
after  her  death,  at  this  hour.  I  had  gone  to  inquire 
about  the  Countess.  She  was  receiving !  *  Would  you 
like  to  tell  her  good-by  ? '  she  asked  me.  *  That  good 
Lincoln  is  modelling  her  face,  to  keep  it  for  me.'  And 
I  entered  the  room  where  the  dead  girl  was  resting. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  cheeks  hollow  and  drawn,  her 
pretty  nose  was  a  little  pinched,  and  around  her  brow 
and  mouth  was  a  mingled  bitterness  and  peace  that  I 
cannot  describe.  Nor  can  I  express  what  was  meant  to 
me  by  that  thought :  '  If  you  had  wished  it,  only  six 
times  twenty-four  hours  ago,  she  would  have  lived, 
she  would  have  smiled,  she  would  have  loved  you ! ' 
The  American  was  near  the  bed,  tempering  his  plaster, 
while  Florent  Chapron,  always  faithful  and  unconscious, 
prepared  the  oil  to  spread  over  the  dead  girl's  face,  and 
that  treacherous  Lydia  Maitland  followed  this  scene 
with  eyes  that  made  me  shiver  when  I  remembered  what 
I  had  guessed  during  the  course  of  my  last  conversation 
with  Alba.  If  she  does  not  undertake  the  part  of  the 
Nemesis  of  the  ancients,  and  tell  the  Countess  every- 
thing, I  know  nothing  about  physiognomies.  For  the 
moment  she  was  still  silent,  and  guess  the  only  thing 
the  mother  could  find  to  say  when  her  lover,  the  one  on 
whose  account  her  daughter  had  suffered  so  much,  ap- 


EPILOGUE.  335 

proached  their  common  victim  :  *  Be  careful  not  to 
break  her  beautiful  eyelashes!'  The  mockery  of  this 
is  horrible— horrible !  " 

The  young  man  dropped  on  a  bench  as  he  uttered  this 
cry  of  distress  and  remorse  which  Montfanon  repeated 
mechanically,  overwhelmed  by  this  tragic  confidence : 
"  Yes,  it  is  horrible."  This  conversation,  so  different 
from  the  one  they  had  held  a  few  weeks  before,  on  a 
bright  May  morning,  at  the  corner  of  the  Strada  Borgo- 
gnona  and  the  Piazza  de  Ipagne,  took  place  in  a  remote 
alley  of  the  Vatican  gardens.  Montfanon,  who  had  re- 
ceived that  morning  a  visit  from  the  author,  who  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving  for  Paris,  and  this  time  positively 
had  found  him  so  sad  that  he  had  kept  him  to  breakfast, 
had  accompanied  him  on  his  errands,  and  finally  con- 
ducted him  to  this  spot — which  was  very  peculiar  and 
difficult  of  access — with  the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  a 
truly  frightful  prostration  by  satisfying  his  curiosity. 
Twenty  times  during  the  winter  Julien  had  begged  for 
the  favor  of  this  visit,  and  twenty  times  the  old  Zouave, 
whose  relations  with  the  pontifical  court  allowed  him  to 
enter  the  gardens  at  will,  had  declined  the  responsibil- 
ity of  introducing  a  stranger.  He  must  have  loved  Dor- 
senne  very  dearly  on  the  one  hand,  and  been  very  un- 
easy on  the  other,  to  have  laid  aside  this  scruple.  This 
walk,  however,  had  had  no  other  result  than  to  procure 
for  him  the  tragic  narrative  of  Alba  Steno's  death,  with 
all  the  details  which  the  novelist  alone  could  know. 
Though  they  were  but  a  portion  of  the  reality,  they  suf- 
ficed to  touch  deeply  the  brave  and  tender  heart  of  the 
old  gentleman.  He  would  have  liked  to  find  words  capa- 
ble of  consoling  his  friend.  But  what  could  he  say  to 
him  when  he  judged  him  so  guilty  for  having  imprudent- 
ly, through  sentimental  epicureanism,  played  with  poor 
Alba's  tortured  soul.  Then  his  conscience,  as  a  fervent 
Christian,  had  not  consoled  itself  for  the  part  he  him- 
self had  taken  in  the  duel  between  Chapron  and  Gorka. 
He  understood  that  this  meeting  in  determining  the 


336  COSMOPOLIS. 

departure  of  Boleslas  and  his  wife,  had  contributed 
to  enlighten  Madame  Steno's  daughter,  so  that  he 
himself,  Montfanon,  had  had  a  very  small  share — yet 
a  share — in  this  suicide.  And  he  was  silent.  Perhaps, 
also,  the  one  and  the  other,  the  believer  and  the  scep- 
tic, were  invaded  by  the  melancholy  atmosphere  of 
the  place  where  their  conversation  had  evoked  the 
cruel  catastrophe  in  which  both  had  been  actors, 
though  in  a  different  degree.  The  clumps  of  dark  live- 
oaks,  surrounded  by  enormous  box-trees  evenly  trimmed, 
rustled  around  them.  No  other  sound  but  that  of  the 
foliage,  blending  with  the  monotonous  murmur  of  a 
neighboring  fountain,  filled  this  enclosure,  bordered  on 
one  side  by  the  ancient  walls  of  Rome,  while  the  mo- 
tionless cupola  of  Saint  Peter's  towered  on  the  other. 
The  only  guests  of  the  pontifical  gardens  seemed  to  be, 
with  the  two  friends,  the  marble  gods  scattered  among 
the  bushes,  remnants  of  pagan  art  placed  there  in  the 
shadow  of  the  great  basilica  by  a  caprice  of  the  popes 
of  the  Renaissance,  perhaps  by  the  order  of  that  Leo  X. 
who  held  in  these  gardens  his  court  of  rare  poets  and 
glorious  artists.  Beneath  the  implacable  and  already 
torrid  azure  of  the  June  afternoon  this  population  of 
white  statues  added  to  this  solitude  the  solemnity 
which  always  emanates  from  a  great  and  ruined  past. 
Had  not  these  images  of  the  gods  been  present  at  the 
fall  of  their  Olympus  and  of  their  worship,  to  be  to-day 
silent  witnesses  of  the  dispossession  of  the  Vicar  of 
Him  who  had  dethroned  them  ?  At  the  corners  of  the 
alleys  gigantic  urns,  also  of  marble,  outlined  their  ele- 
gant slenderness.  Grasses  overflowed  from  them,  di- 
shevelled by.  the  wind,  mere  living  verdure  against  the 
death-like  verdure  of  the  imperishable  box-trees  and 
evergreen  oaks.  These  young  plants  seemed  to  palpi- 
tate and  suffer  from  being  imprisoned  within  this  en- 
closure, which  is  in  fact  a  prison — voluntary,  but  all  the 
more  strict  and  definite — the  last  piece  of  soil  and  nat- 
ure left  to  the  august  captive  of  the  Vatican.    Never 


EPILOGUE.  387 

had  Montfanon  felt  as  he  did  at  this  moment,  the  poetry 
of  these  gardens,  unique  in  the  world,  and  also  the  envi- 
roning- sadness  which  breathed  from  their  silent  thick- 
ets, their  narrow  flower-beds,  their  fountains,  and  even 
their  terraces,  from  which  could  be  seen  only  the  patrol 
wall,  and  also  the  innumerable  factory  chimneys — brutal 
symbol  of  victorious  modern  activity.  The  man  of  energy 
and  frankness  that  was  in  the  "  old  leaguer,"  could  no 
longer  endure  this  feeling  of  oppression,  and  suddenly, 
after  shaking  his  gray  head  several  times  as  though  he 
were  deliberating,  he  forced  Dorsenne  to  rise  by  scold- 
ing: 

"  Come,  Julien,  we  cannot  remain  here  the  whole 
afternoon  dreaming  and  sighing  like  women!  That 
child  is  dead.  We  cannot  bring  her  back  to  life,  you 
by  despairing  or  I  in  sympathizing  with  your  sorrow. 
We  have  more  to  do,  that  is,  we  must  both  look  in  the 
face  our  responsibility  in  this  sad  event,  repent  of  it, 
and  expiate  it." 

"  Our  responsibility,"  questioned  Julien.  "  I  can  still 
see  mine,  strictly  speaking,  though  I  could  not  really 
guess  the  consequences  of  my  answer,  but  yours  ?  " 

"Yours  and  mine,"  replied  Montfanon.  "I  am  no 
sophist,  and  I  am  in  the  habit  of  never  temporizing 
with  my  conscience.  Yes  or  no,"  he  insisted  with  a  re- 
turn of  his  usual  excitement ;  "  did  I  leave  the  cata- 
combs to  arrange  that  wretched  duel  ?  Yes  or  no,  did 
I  yield  to  those  fumes  of  anger  which  rose  to  my  head 
when  I  heard  of  Ardea's  unworthy  marriage  and  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  that  equivocal  Hafner  ?  Yes 
or  no,  did  this  duel  contribute  to  enlighten  Mme. 
Gorka  about  her  husband,  and,  as  a  consequence,  Mdlle. 
Steno  about  her  mother  ?  Did  you  not  tell  me  yourself, 
just  now,  the  progress  of  her  wretchedness  after  the 
scandal  ?  And  if  I  was  overwhelmed  as  I  was  by  the 
news  of  this  suicide,  it  is  particularly  on  that  account, 
because  an  inner  voice  told  me :  '  There  are  a  few  of 
this  dead  girl's  tears  on  your  hands.'  " 


338  COSMOPOLIS. 

"  But,  my  poor  friend,"  interrupted  Dorsenne, 
"where  do  you  find  such  arguments  ?  On  this  score, 
no  one  would  live.  Some  poi-tiou  of  our  action  enters 
in  an  indirect  way  into  a  number  of  actions  which  in  no 
way  concern  us  ;  and  admitting  that  we  should  have  a 
debt  of  responsibility  to  pay,  this  debt  begins  and  ends 
with  what  we  directly,  precisely,  and  clearly  willed." 

"  That  would  be  very  convenient,"  replied  the  Mar- 
quis with  even  more  vivacity,  "  but  the  proof  that  it  is 
not  true  is  that  you  are  tilled  with  remorse  for  not  hav- 
ing spared  the  feeble  soul  of  that  defenceless  child. 
Ah  !  I  have  not  softened  the  truth  to  myself,  nor  shall 
I  soften  it  to  you.  Do  you  remember  the  morning 
when  you  were  so  gay,  and  you  explained  to  me  the 
theory  of  your  cosmopolitism  ?  It  amused  you  to  look 
on  as  a  dilettante  at  one  of  those  race  dramas  which 
bring  to  the  front  characters  coming  from  all  parts  of 
the  eaiih  and  of  history,  and  you  made  out  for  this  one 
a  programme  which  events  have  executed  almost  to  the 
letter.  Mme.  Steno  has  in  fact  behaved  toward  her 
two  lovers  like  a  Venetian  of  the  days  of  Aretino, 
Chapron  with  all  the  blind  devotion  of  the  descendant 
of  an  oppressed  race,  his  sister  with  all  the  abomina- 
ble ferocity  of  a  rebel  who  shakes  off  the  yoke  since  you 
suspect  her  of  having  written  the  anonymous  letters. 
Hafner  and  Ardea  have  laid  bare  two  detestable  souls, 
the  one  of  an  infamous  half-Dutch,  half-German  usurer, 
the  other,  of  a  degraded  gentleman  in  whom  some  an- 
cient condottiere  revives.  Gorka  was  brave  and  sense- 
less, like  all  Poles  ;  his  wife  implacable  and  loyal,  like 
all  the  English,  and  poor  Alba  ended  like  her  real  father. 
I  shall  not  speak  to  you  of  Baron  Hafner's  daughter," 
and  he  raised  his  hat.  Then,  in  an  altered  voice  :  "  She 
is  a  saint  about  whom  I  was  mistaken.  But  she  has 
some  drops  of  Jewish  blood  in  her  veins,  of  that  blood 
which  was  that  of  God's  people.  I  should  have  remem- 
bered that  and  the  beautiful  legend  of  the  Middle 
Ages :  '  The  Jewish  women  shall  be  saved  because  they 


EPILOGUE.  339 

wept  in  secret  for  Our  Saviour.'  You  gave  it  to  me  be- 
forehand, the  j)lot  of  this  drama  in  which  we  were 
mixed  up.  And  I,  do  you  remember  what  I  said  to 
you:  'In  all  this,  is  there  no  soul  you  could  help  to 
become  better  ?  '  You  laughed  in  my  face  at  that  mo- 
ment. Had  you  been  less  polite,  you  would  have 
called  me  an  old  fool,  a  Philistine,  a  shaveling.  You 
wished  to  be  only  a  spectator  at  the  play,  the  gentle- 
man in  the  gallery  who  wipes  his  opera-glasses  to  lose 
nothing  of  the  comedy.  Well !  You  were  not  able  to  do 
so.  That  part  is  not  given  to  man.  He  must  act  and 
he  always  acts,  even  when  he  thinks  he  is  only  looking 
on,  even  when  he  washes  his  hands  like  Pontius  Pilate, 
who  was  also  a  dilettante,  and  who  said  what  you  and 
your  masters  say  :  '  What  is  truth  ?  '  Truth  is  that 
there  is  always  and  everywhere  a  duty  to  fulfil.  Mine 
was  to  prevent  that  criminal  encounter ;  yours  was  not 
to  pay  attention  to  that  young  girl  if  you  did  not  love 
her,  and  if  you  did  love  her,  to  marry  her  and  take  her 
away  from  her  abominable  surroundings.  We  have 
both  been  lacking  in  the  fulfillment  of  our  duty — and  at 
what  price  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  severe,"  said  the  young  man.  "  But 
admitting  that  you  are  right,  will  Alba  be  any  the  less 
dead?  What  use  is  it  that  I  should  know  what  I 
ought  to  have  done,  now  that  it  is  too  late  ?  " 

"  Never  to  begin  again,"  said  the  Marquis ;  "  then  to 
judge  yourself  and  judge  your  life.  I  love  you  ten- 
derly, Dorsenue,  you  know  it,  and  it  is  perhaps  the 
last  time  that  I  shall  speak  to  you  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart.  Yes,  the  last  time.  I  shall  not  probably 
live  very  much  longer ;  and  you,  will  you  ever  return  to 
Rome,  with  this  phantom  awaiting  you  here  ?  When  I 
told  you  my  hatred  for  these  Cosmopolitans  who  de- 
lighted you  then,  I  expressed  myself  badly.  An  old 
soldier  is  not  a  philosopher.  What  I  hated,  what  I 
hate  in  them  is  that  these  iiprooted  ones  are  almost 
always  the  ends  of  races,  the  consumers  of  an  heredity 


340  COSMOPOLIS. 

of  forces  acquired  by  others,  the  squanderers  of  treas- 
ures which  they  waste  without  increasing.  Those 
from  whom  they  descend  have  worked  at  real  work, 
that  which  adds  on  one  same  spot  the  effoi-t  of  the 
sons  to  the  effort  of  the  parents.  It  is  that  work 
which  makes  families  and  families,  which  make  coun- 
ties, then  race^.  Your  Cosmopolitans,  they  found  noth- 
ing, saw  nothing,  fertilize  nothing.  They  enjoy.  When 
this  enjoyment  attacks  only  sensation  and  sentiment,  it 
is  only  half  bad.  But  when  it  attacks  thought  as  with 
you,  as  with  all  the  dilettante  of  your  school,  it  is  the 
great  intellectual  sin,  one  of  those  about  Avhich  it  is 
written  that  they  will  not  be  forgiven.  I  have  studied 
you  well  through  all  my  freaks,  and  I  can  tell  you  so,  I 
who  pray.  I  have  often  prayed  for  you  since  I  have 
really  known  you.  You  were  indignant  just  now  over 
the  cynical  speech  of  that  unconscious  mother  about 
her  dead  daughter,  '  Be  careful  not  to  break  her  beau- 
tiful eyelashes,'  and  you  were  wrong.  What  do  you 
continually  do  with  the  human  soul,  if  not  to  make 
moulds  to  reproduce  ?— through  vanity  as  an  author,  a 
little  or  not  much,  because  I  must  do  you  the  justice  to 
say  that  you  care  much  less  for  your  successes  than  for 
your  intellectual  voluptuousness  ?  But  this  voluptu- 
ousness is  for  you  the  sole  motive,  the  only  object  of 
your  existence  and  of  all  existence,  the  end  and  result 
of  the  entire  universe.  Thousands  of  generations  have 
suffered,  have  wept,  have  struggled,  have  exterminated 
each  other,  for  the  joy  of  that  little  thrill  which  your 
thoughts  give  you.  To  this  little  thrill,  to  this  cere- 
bral spasm  given  you  by  ^our  understanding,  you  have 
sacrificed  Alba  as  you  would  sacrifice  your  best  friend, 
your  father,  your  mother,  if  they  were  in  this  world. 
Good  and  evil,  sorrow  and  joy,  all  serve  as  matter  for 
this  play  of  your  mind,  which  I  find  as  monstrous  as 
that  of  Nero  burning  Rome  ;  this  abuse  of  the  sacred 
gift  for  which  you  will  have  to  render  a  terrible  ac- 
count, you  as  well  as  the  illustrious  corrupters,  your 


EPILOGUE.  341 

elders.  For  of  all  egotisms,  that  one  is  the  worst  which 
degrades  the  highest  power  of  the  soul  to  be  but  a  tool 
for  the  most  barren  and  inhuman  of  pleasures.    .    .     ." 

"  There  is  truth  in  what  you  say,"  replied  Dorsenne, 
"  but  you  are  mistaken  if  you  think  that  the  most  ultra 
intellectual  men  of  our  age  have  not  suffered  from  this 
abuse  of  thought.  What  can  be  done,  alas  !  It  is  the 
malady  of  this  over-cultivated  century,  and  it  has  no 
cure." 

"  It  has  one,"  interrupted  Montfanon,  "  and  one  that 
you  do  not  wish  to  see.  You  will  not  deny  that  Balzac 
was  the  boldest  of  your  modern  writers  ;  and  must  I,  an 
ignorant  man,  quote  to  you,  the  mandarin  of  the  su- 
preme button,  this  phrase  which  dominates  his  whole 
work :  '  Thought,  principle  of  good  and  of  evil,  can 
only  be  prepared,  subdued,  and  directed  by  religion  ? ' 
Look ! "  he  continued,  suddenly  taking  the  arm  of  his 
companion  and  forcing  him  to  look  through  the  under- 
brush down  a  side  alley.  "  There  he  is,  the  physician 
who  holds  the  remedy  for  this  disease  of  the  soul  as  for 
all  others.  Don't  show  yourself.  They  must  have  for- 
gotten our  presence.  But  look,  look — ah  !  What  a 
meeting." 

The  personage  who  had  suddenly  appeared  in  the 
frame  of  that  melancholy  garden,  and  in  an  almost  su- 
pernatural manner,  so  much  was  his  presence  a  living 
commentary  on  the  passionate  discourse  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman, was  no  other  than  the  Holy  Father,  himself,  on 
his  way  to  take  his  carriage  for  his  accustomed  drive. 
Dorsenne,  who  only  knew  Leo  XIII.  from  his  pictures, 
saw  a  bent  and  broken  old  man,  whose  white  robe  shone 
beneath  his  red  cloak,  and  who  leaned  with  one  arm  on 
a  prelate  of  his  court,  and  with  the  other  on  one  of  his 
officers.  Though  he  drew  aside,  as  Montfanon  had 
recommended,  so  as  not  to  draw  any  reprimand  on  the 
keepers,  he  was  able  to  study  the  delicate  profile  of  the 
Sovereign  Pontiff,  who  stopped  before  a  bed  of  rose- 
bushes, to  talk  in  a  familiar  way  with  the  gardener.    He 


842  COSMOPOLIS. 

saw  the  infinitely  indulgent  smile  of  that  witty  mouth. 
He  saw  the  flash  of  those  eyes  which  seemed  to  justify 
by  their  radiance  the  lumen  in  Coelo  applied  to  Pius 
IX. 's  successor  by  a  celebrated  prophecy.  He  saw  the 
venerable  hand,  that  white  diaphanous  hand  which  is 
raised  with  so  much  majesty  to  give  the  solemn  bene- 
diction, extended  toward  a  splendid  yellow  rose,  and 
the  fingers  which  came  out  of  the  white  mitten  bent 
the  flower  without  breaking  it,  as  though  not  to  bruise 
one  of  God's  frail  creatures.  The  old  pope  inhaled  the 
young  rose  for  a  second,  then  resumed  his  walk  toward 
the  carriage  vaguely  outlined  between  the  trunks  of  the 
live  oaks.  The  horses  started  off  at  a  trot  which  one 
guessed  at  once  to  be  extremely  rapid,  and  Dorsenne, 
turning  toward  the  old  Zouave,  saw  great  tears  standing 
in  Montfanon's  eyes,  who,  forgetting  the  rest  of  their 
conversation,  said  with  a  sigh : 

*'  And  this  is  his  only  pleasure,  he  who  is  nevertheless 
the  successor  of  the  first  apostle,  to  smell  flowers,  and 
go  miles  in  a  carriage  as  fast  as  his  horses  can  go. 
They  have  arranged  four  miles  of  carriage  road,  which 
winds  in  and  out  at  the  foot  of  the.  terrace  where  we  sat 
half  an  hour  ago.  And  he  drives  and  drives,  giving 
himself  the  illusion  of  space  which  is  forbidden  to  him. 
I  have  seen  many  sad  spectacles  in  the  course  of  my  life  ; 
I  have  been  to  war,  and  I  have  spent  a  whole  night 
wounded,  on  a  battle-field  covered  with  snow,  among  the 
dead,  and  grazed  by  the  wheels  of  the  enemy's  artillery, 
as  they  passed  by  singing.  Nothing  has  moved  me  like 
the  sight  of  the  drive  of  this  old  man  who  has  never 
uttered  a  complaint,  and  who  has  only  this  acre  of  land 
where  he  can  move  about  in  freedom.  But  there  is  a 
magnificent  quotation,  written  by  the  old  man  himself, 
beneath  his  picture,  i6r  a  missionarj'.  It  is  from  Ter- 
tullian.  This  quotation  explains  his  whole  life  :  Debi- 
tricem  martyrii  fdem.  '  Faith  is  compelled  to  martyr- 
dom.'" 

"  Dehitriceni martyrii ^fidem,"  repeated  Dorsenne  ;  "how 


EPILOGUE.  343 

beautiful  that  is !  "  Then  he  added  iii  a  deep  tone : 
"You  treated  the  sceptics  and  dilettante  very  harshly 
just  now.  But  do  you  think  there  is  a  single  one  who 
would  refuse  martyrdom  if  he  were  to  have  faith  at  the 
same  time "?  " 

Never  had  Montfanon  heard  the  young  man  utter 
such  a  phrase  and  in  such  a  tone.  Then,  by  contrast,  he 
saw  the  image  of  the  lively  dashing  Dorsenne,  of  the 
gayly  sophistical  dandy  of  letters,  for  whom  ancient  and 
venerable  Home  was  only  a  city  of  pleasures,  a  Cosmop- 
olis  more  paradoxical  than  Florence,  Nice,  Biarritz, 
Saint  Moritz,  then  sucli  and  such  an  international  sum- 
mer or  winter  city.  He  felt  that  for  the  first  time  this 
soul  was  touched  to  its  depths.  The  tragic  death  of 
poor  Alba  was  to  become,  in  the  author's  conscience, 
the  point  of  remorse  around  which  would  begin  the 
moral  life  of  that  creature,  at  once  superior  and  incom- 
plete, and  up  to  that  time  exiled  from  simple  humanity 
by  the  most  invincible  pride  of  intellects.  As  Mont- 
fanon was  at  the  same  time  a  very  fervent  Christian  and 
a  very  tender  friend,  he  understood  that  any  other  words 
would  wound  that  heart,  already  so  sore.  He  was  afraid 
of  having  already  rebuked  him  too  harshly.  Without 
replying,  he  took  the  young  man's  arm  under  his  own 
and  squeezed  it  with  a  silent  pressure,  putting  into  this 
manly  caress  all  the  warm  and  discreet  pity  of  an  elder 
brother. 


THE  END. 


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